Adventus
by Heal My Hopeless Heart
Summary: Red briefly reenters Liz's life for the duration of the holidays.
1. Chapter 1

_When Lizzie was a little girl, she hated going to church._

"_Can't I stay home, Daddy? Do I have to go?"_

_Sam Scott looked down at his daughter with narrowed eyes and furrowed brow, shaking his head and sighing. "You ask me that every week! You know what the answer is." Lizzie frowned, her lower lip jutting out. She crossed her arms over her chest and lowered her head, her face concealed by the long tendrils of her dark brown hair. She sat down on the top step, leaning her face into the crook of her folded arms. "I don't _wanna_ go . . ."_

_Her plaintive moan, though muffled, grated on Sam's nerve. He sighed again, ascending the staircase until he was at the top. He sat down beside his daughter, patting her hair sympathetically. "I'm sorry to hear that, Butterball. I really am. But you know that doesn't change anything. I'm going to give you 10 minutes to go upstairs and get ready. By that time I want you downstairs, waiting for me by the door to go. Do you understand me, Elizabeth?"_

"_Yes sir. . ."_

"_Good. Remember now, 10 minutes. And your time starts . . . now."_

_Lizzie huffed once before slowly standing up, dragging her feet all the way down the hall to her bedroom. She closed the door gently behind her, knowing that she would be in trouble for slamming it. She stomped over to her closet, the only other sign of rebellion she was permitted to indulge in, and rooted through the hangers for her favorite dress. It was a soft hot pink cotton dress, with a big white bow on the chest. _

_One of Daddy's friends from work had brought it to her on her birthday. He had stopped by only long enough to drop the package off; when Daddy saw the man walking up the driveway, he ordered Lizzie to go to her room. She did, but she kept the bedroom door open a crack and knelt behind it, eavesdropping. _

_She wasn't able to make out any of what was said, but she knew from Daddy's low, tense tone that he was not happy to see the man. Minutes later, he was gone, and Daddy brought the box upstairs for her to open. Besides the dress, the man had also given her a light pink headband, complete with a chiffon rose; in addition, the box contained white patent leather shoes, in just the right size._

_Lizzie loved it, but she knew from her father's somewhat exasperated reaction that she should not make a big deal of it. So she hadn't; she hung the dress up in the back of her closet, put the shoes in the shoe box and under her bed, and put the headband in a dresser drawer, buried beneath piles of socks. It had been nearly four months, but today she was finally going to wear it! She didn't care anymore how Daddy would react._

_Hurriedly, Lizzie changed out of her nightgown, slipped the dress over her head, put on a pair of hose, and reached under the bed for the shoe box. She slid the lid off, staring for a moment at her perfect, unblemished shoes, before putting them on as well. Lastly, she opened her dresser drawer, rummaging through it until she found her headband, lying unscathed on the bottom. _

_She handled it reverently, as something precious and sacred she had been denied for too long. Of all the things she'd been given that day, she liked it best. As she placed it on her head, she felt like a displaced princess finally being given her rightful diadem._

_She quickly ran out of her room and into the bathroom, gazing disbelievingly at her reflection in the mirror. She leaned close, sticking out her tongue, pinching and slapping her face to be sure that it was really _her_. She slapped herself so hard that tears came to her eyes, but she stifled her sob, forcing herself to smile cheerfully. If Daddy saw that she had been crying, he might assume that she was still upset with him, and then she would be in trouble._

_Lizzie removed her headband with some reluctance, and hastily combed out her long brown hair before replacing it. She did not know how much time had passed, but she knew her time was almost up. Now ready, she went out into the hall and quickly went downstairs. _

_She was relieved to see that the foyer was empty, and stood patiently by the door, her arms pressed down against her side. She waited a few more minutes, and then Sam emerged from the kitchen, fumbling with his tie. He smiled appreciatively at his daughter, leaning down to kiss her cheek._

"_You look beautiful, sweetie! Don't you want to go and show off your dress to everyone now?"_

"_Yeah Daddy, let's go!" Lizzie held his hand, bracing herself for what was sure to be, in spite of her father's enthusiasm, just another boring Sunday morning._

* * *

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been thirteen years since my last confession. . ."

Liz paused, wondering for the thousandth time why in God's name she had come. In the same vein of thought, she answered _because you had no other choice._ She hated to admit it, but she did not, not anymore.

She had received the summons an hour earlier, a brochure from the Cathedral of Saint Matthew the Apostle, enclosed with a small white card with the words **Come, I have prepared a place for you; I will not leave you an orphan. . .** written in blue ink in a very careful block script.

From that moment, her heart began to race, and she immediately got in the car and drove the 10+ miles from her house to the Cathedral, going at least 10 miles over the speed limit. Miraculously, she had not been pulled over.

She stormed through the church doors, panting as if she had run a long distance. When she entered, she attracted the attention of the half dozen parishioners kneeling in the pews: a few disapproving frowns from the elderly, and looks of bored indifference from the two adolescents― who'd been forced to come along by their more devout grandparents, no doubt. Liz nodded empathetically, ducking her head as she traversed the center aisle, making her way to the confessional booth in the front, to the far left of the stage and altar.

Before entering, she made the sign of the Cross, touching first her forehead, chest, left and right shoulders with her pointer and middle fingers. She said a small prayer for courage, and parted the curtain to enter. Once inside, she saw that the small window screen had been slid open, and she was able to make out the blurred image of a man in white priestly vestments.

"Bless me, Father," she began again, "for I have sinned . . ."

"Come now, Lizzie, must you repeat yourself? Do you think I am that hard of hearing?"

"Oh my God, it _is_ you!"

"I'm sorry dear, would you mind lowering your voice? Did I not just specify that my hearing is perfectly fine?"

"Y – Yes, I'm sorry." She lowered her voice to a murmur. "How did you know about this place?"

"I've already told you, I know practically everything about you. Did you think that should exclude your prior place of worship?"

"When you put it that way, I guess not." Liz's voice shook, and she clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. She hated feeling this way, like she was losing control. The truth was, she was so relieved she thought she would weep. She held herself in check, using every ounce of restraint she could muster. She said nothing, waiting for him to speak.

A long, companionable silence stretched between them, perhaps a few minutes, before he finally spoke:

"How are you, Lizzie? Have you been heeding my advice?"

"If you mean about Tom, yes. I keep my distance."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning exactly what I said. We sleep together, we get up, we go to work, we come home, we eat, we do it all over again." Liz felt her face flush divulging this information, but that seemed absurd. Like he said, Red already knew 'practically everything' about her, and certainly he knew that she would not become a celibate, just because she no longer trusted her husband.

She could not suddenly stop _being_ with him. That would only raise his suspicions and perhaps invite his anger and irritation, especially after the events of the past few months. She continued, "We don't talk about much of anything, besides the usual pleasantries."

"Has he acted out of the ordinary? Is he treating you decently?"

"Yes, I told you: I mean, I guess I'd have to say everything's fine, since he hasn't yelled at me or beat me or anything."

"Do not be so snide with me, Lizzie. I only ask you out of genuine concern. You know that." His tone was even, but his words conveyed hurt and disappointment.

"Yes," she conceded, hating the twinge of guilt that came over her. "I know. I'm sorry." Her own tone was meek and sheepish, obviously tremulous. "I know. . ."

"So," Red interrupted, eager to move past the uncomfortable tension, "you were about to confess your sins?"

"What do you mean? I don't have to confess anything to you!"

"Actually, I think that would be the most prudent thing for you to do. We have been here for about five minutes, hardly enough time for a proper confession. Wouldn't it look suspicious to the others if you were to walk out and leave so abruptly, without even doing your penance?"

"I don't know. I didn't really think —"

"That's exactly the point, darling, you _didn't _think. And if you have any reservations about making confession to me, you should know that I for all intents and purposes have all the qualifications necessary of being a priest."

Hearing her shocked gasp, he quickly elaborated: "Except for the whole bit about being celibate. I couldn't quite manage that. But I was naïve when I was 20, and thought that I was fully ready to handle all of the restrictions that would come with the priestly vestments. I went through seminary, but I only lasted about a year before giving in to my baser nature."

Red chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down Liz's spine. She was momentarily stunned, not sure how she should process this newfound information. This was the most Red had ever talked about himself; she found that she was even a little disappointed that a small piece of the enigma that was Raymond Reddington had been shattered. She wondered how she should respond, and ultimately settled with giving in to his suggestion.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I accuse myself of the following sins:

I have been guilty of wrath. I do not feel secure in my home, and I take out my pent up frustrations on my coworkers. I shout, lose my temper, etc. I have entertained thoughts of walking out on my marriage, again due to my fear and insecurity. I have entertained lustful thoughts . . ." here she paused, swallowing the growing lump in her throat before continuing: "Lustful thoughts which did not concern my husband. In essence, I am guilty of the sin of adultery under Scripture. These are my recent sins, to the best of my knowledge."

Liz hoped that would be sufficient. She had not attended confession since she was 17 but, as Red often reminded her, he knew her. He knew her in every way it seemed, except the biblical sense. She did not doubt that in some way, he knew the ins and outs of her spiritual life over the years, the severity of sins she had committed, and her steadily growing lack of faith.

With his associates probably keeping an eye on her every move in his absence, she even wondered if she needed to confess what she had. Surely he already knew the particulars of her sins of the past few weeks, just by hearing secondhand accounts of her actions. He seemed to be as omniscient as God himself.

She waited with bated breath for his reply. The silence could not have been more than half a minute, but for her it seemed like an hour.

"Dear child, I hereby absolve you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I assign as penance that you recite 10 Our Fathers, and that you take time each day to examine your thoughts and your sins, in word and deed. Go now in peace and the grace of God. Amen."

. . . . .

When she had made her 'confession,' Liz exited the confessional and sat down in the back pew to the side of the church, closing her eyes and folding her hands in prayer to do her penance. She ran through the Our Fathers, the words ingrained in her mind by rote from years of reciting the prayer as a child.

Soon she felt the cushioned space beside her sink under new weight, and she leaned her head instinctively against Red's shoulder, felt him envelop her in his arms. Liz sniffled, grateful her eyes were clenched shut and that her tears could not flow. She hated the thought of crying in front of Red ― _again_. Much as that may be, she still gave in, letting her tears fall when she felt Red press cool, dry lips to her forehead.

"I know you are scared," he murmured gently, his breath tickling her. "But did I not tell you that I be there should you need me, whatever the case?"

"Yes. . ."

"Well then; you do not need to feel ashamed to show your emotion in front of me. It is far healthier that you let loose your fear and anxiety than that you should allow it to build up inside you. You know this much from your general psychology class in high school."

Red's voice was low and soothing, a balm to Liz's frazzled mind. That he could so freely and gently tease her made almost made her want to cry even more. It was damned unfair that a psychopathic criminal should be the one to act as her closest confidante.

She knew that she should hate this man with every fiber of her being, but much as she wanted to, as angry as she was at him for keeping her in the dark, she couldn't help but admire and respect him. And yet, she was afraid of him. In one swift movement, he could incapacitate her, be done with her and leave her for dead. She would be one less reason to worry him. She had seen how casually he had disposed of Kornish. If he were to turn against her for whatever reason, what would stop him from disposing of her?

She had called him a monster, then, and when asked how he could justify being so brutal he'd simply said _'To protect you.'_ Shit! Liz wasn't sure she wanted to hold that level of responsibility. She could not fathom why she was so special, why she should be his _raison d'être. _That was what it seemed like. When she'd told him he had no life, he'd looked at her point blank and rebutted '_I have you.'_ Six words that had been spoken on two different occasions, and now they were ingrained into her psyche.

She could not think of the man at all without hearing those words, could not hope to maintain a professional indifference toward him anymore. What was worse, now that she finally realized she could not get along well without him, he was Public Enemy #1. She was risking a lot by being there.

She turned to face him, burying her face into the crook of his neck. "It's alright," he said softly, voice just above a whisper. "We're the only ones left in the church. You can let it all out." He twined his fingers through her hair, gently pulling, sending tiny pinpricks of pain in her scalp that was both brutal and sweet. If his idea was to make it easier to start crying, he succeeded.

Liz gasped and whimpered at the pain, grabbing fistfuls of Red's floor-length white robes. Her nails scratched the likeness of Jesus' face stitched onto his chest, struggling. "Let me go!" she pleaded and pounded on his chest, openly weeping now. Red did not speak, but loosened his grip on her hair, moving his hand instead to rest against the base of her neck. He applied pressure to her skin, kneading and massaging the muscle.

Gradually, Liz calmed down, her crying reduced to a series of sniffles and hiccups.

Red held her, long after her crying ceased. He felt her body slacken, and knew she had fallen asleep. He gave a cursory glance out over the sanctuary, making sure there was no one else there.

Satisfied, seeing only an elderly woman with her face buried in her hands, quietly praying, Red gingerly stood up, cradling Liz's soft dense weight in his arms as he stealthily exited the Cathedral through the side fire exit.

* * *

**Author's Note**: This was intended to be a long one-shot, but will likely turn into a short (5 chapters or less) Christmas interlude between them. I apologize if they seem OOC, I am still trying to get a hold on Liz's mannerisms, and figure anything definitively about the rather enigmatic Reddington . . . I love a good mystery, and The Blacklist is my favorite. There are so many layers to the characters, I hope I can do them justice!


	2. Chapter 2

Liz woke with a throbbing headache and a cramped neck.

The pain was so intense that she cried out, immediately waking up Red, who was lying beside her, one arm carefully draped across her abdomen.

Wherever they were, they were moving fast.

Red was silent, gazing at her with open fascination as she took in her surroundings. She was lying down, in a bed, beside one of the FBI's Most Wanted. Judging by the speed, she figured they must have boarded a sleeper car with Amtrak. Or rather, _he_ had boarded the train, toting her unconscious body, for God's sake!

_How the hell does he get away with stuff like this?_

Seized by an onslaught of panic, Liz clenched her eyes shut and counted to 10, all the while taking deep, steady breaths. Red's eyes flashed with some unreadable emotion as she gradually progressed to a state of serenity. She slowly opened her eyes, and began to drum her fingers on Red's tightly possessive arm. It was a nervous habit; one Red probably already knew she had.

She rubbed the skin of his forearm, gently at first, and increasingly more forcibly. Abruptly, she took hold of his arm in both hands and wrenched the skin multiple times, causing Red to cringe and utter a pained grunt. He backed away from her a bit, frowning down at the bright red imprints of her fingers, the skin around it already turning various shades of blue and purple.

"Goodness, Lizzie, that wasn't very nice." Red traced the bruises with his fingertips, wincing and baring teeth. "Why did you do that?" He was more curious than angry. "Have I hurt you in some way?"

"No." Liz shook her head, taking hold of his arm again. "_You_ didn't do anything. I have a crick in my neck, and I think I'm getting a migraine. Should I even ask how long I've been asleep?"

"I'm sorry you're in pain, dear. You have not been asleep very long ― perhaps two and a half, three hours. It is no surprise to me, considering you didn't sleep a wink last night."

Liz considered asking Red how in the heck he knew that, but realized that the question was fat-witted. Instead, she continued examining Red's arm, gently tracing over the angry red marks she had made on his otherwise perfect skin. "Sorry."

She frowned sheepishly, unconsciously poking out her bottom lip. Red resisted the urge to reach over and touch her lips, thinking such a gesture would only be greeted with hostility. At this point, at least.

Red secretly cherished the thought of what she had said, confessing that she'd had lustful thoughts about someone _other_ than her husband. There were only two possibilities: himself, or that loathsome blond, corn-pone pretty boy. Judging from Liz's body language, obvious relief to hear from him again, and the fact that she had point blank asked him if he were her father, Red was inclined to assume the former. This in mind, Red couldn't help smirking, a somewhat arrogant gesture that went entirely unnoticed by Liz as she further surveyed the damage she had caused.

"It's not bad," she declared, letting go of his arm. "Nothing a little ice pack won't fix. Do you want me to go get some – ice, I mean? I can wrap it up in a cloth or something. Nothing doing." She attempted a smile, but it came off as more of a grimace. "I'll go ahead and check."

She quickly stood up, desperate to get out, but a sudden wave of vertigo stopped her cold. "Ow!" she yelped and clutched her head, unceremoniously slumping back down on the bed. "Jesus, that hurts!"

"Lizzie . . ." Red cupped her face in his hands, gently massaging her temples with his thumbs. He moved them in a slow, circular motion, sliding his remaining fingers into her hair to massage her scalp. Slowly, the pain lessened. Liz blinked sleepily, and took hold of Red's bruised arm. He allowed her to turn it over, placing a gentle kiss where she had marked him.

"Thanks," she murmured, "I thought I was a goner there, for a minute."

"No need to be so dramatic, Liz. You've had migraine headaches before, haven't you?"

"Yes, but not for awhile — it must have been at least a few years. And hey, don't preach to me about being dramatic. You're the one who basically lured me into a church so you could kidnap me!"

"I resent the implication. I hardly kidnapped you. If you had been conscious, I've no doubt you would have joined me willingly."

"That's just the point, Red. I _wasn't_ conscious."

"That is inconsequential. I did not lure you anywhere: I sent an invitation, and you accepted. Simple as that."

"Oh my God, Red! Normally I'd try to argue, but I'm too tired to now."

Sitting up, Liz turned her attention to the window, where she could see whirring blurs of green, grey and blue. Trying to make out anything only served to worsen her headache. "Ugh," she turned her back to the window, meeting Red's (frustratingly) unreadable gaze. If the man were a book, Liz thought, he would be comparable to _Finnegans Wake. _

She let him look her over, idly twirling a strand of hair around her finger as she waited for him to say something. When he finally did speak, he was smiling: "Your hair . . ."

"My hair?"

"What are we going to do with it?" Red smirked and handed her a mirror, a small white compact he had on hand (a freebie generously provided by the perky brunette stewardess who accepted their boarding tickets.) Liz gaped in horror at her reflection: her normally lustrous, beautiful brown hair was now drab and hideously tangled, looking as if it had been made a nesting site for rats, or hadn't been washed in a week. "Oh no!" she wailed, feeling that she was about to cry; "What the hell happened?"

"That, my darling, is a rather interesting story ―"

"No, wait, I change my mind! I don't want to know. What am I going to do about it? I guess I could cut it off . . ."

"That is absolutely out of the question. You've been growing your hair out for too long. It would be a shame to let it all go to waste."

"What else am I going to do? I can't have it looking like _this_!"

"You won't have to for much longer. We just need a way to get it out of the way for now."

"Great. And how do you think I should do that?"

"_You_ don't have to do anything. If you don't mind, I will braid it for you. The stewardess was kind enough to provide you with a goody bag, complete with a hairbrush and pack of elastics, along with that compact in your hand. The foundation isn't really your color, but it was nice enough of her to give it to you, don't you think?"

"Um, okay. Whatever. . ." Liz tried to picture Red accepting the bag from the stewardess, as he held Liz's sleeping form in both arms. She wondered what he had said to her, how he had convince her to let them get onto the train.

_Hello! Liz, this is Raymond Reddington. He could murder a person in broad daylight and get away with it, if the cop was a woman and he put on his cultured, oh-so-debonair act._ Okay, maybe that was a little unfair but still, the man was a manipulative bastard.

Liz scooted forward, her feet resting on the dark blue carpet. Red shifted behind her, moving so that his back was pressed against the wall. "I can't quite reach you. Do you mind scooting back a bit?" _Shit._ Liz complied, sliding back on the bed until her backside made contact with Red's leg. She crossed her own legs, sitting Indian-style as she expected he was.

She heard Red rustle around in the bag, and struggled not to flinch when she felt him take hold of her hair. With one hand, he brushed out the tangles and snares, separating it into three sections with the other. His touch was infinitely gentle, professional, almost. Liz yawned and closed her eyes, relaxing under his careful ministration. When he successfully braided her hair, twining the plain black hair bow around the end, Liz found herself wishing it had taken longer.

Lazily, she leaned back against him, resting her head on his chest. Her earlier reservations had evaporated. After all, they had evidently slept in the same bed. It seemed silly for her to worry about propriety at this point. And Red certainly didn't mind.

Putting the brush back in the bag, he wrapped his arms around her. "Lizzie . . ."

"Hmm?"

"As much as I'd love to sit here and hold you― "

"What?"

"I was just going to say that my leg is falling asleep." He laughed softly, the undulation shaking her. Liz pulled out of his embrace, lying on her side and turning away from him. "Sorry. Wouldn't want that to happen."

"Elizabeth." Red lay down behind her, pushing the plastic bag back against the wall. "You poor child, I've upset you. What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" she spat through gritted teeth. "Nothing's wrong. Everything's wrong! I don't know . . ."

"Aha." Red reached over her, pulling her back against him. "I know what it is."

"How? How can you _possibly_ know what 'it' is? There is more wrong here than just one little 'it!' It's this: you, me, here, whatever the hell we're doing! It's you, telling me to be cautious of my own husband, knowing some dark insidious secret about him that you don't feel obligated to share with me. Sending me an 'invitation' as you so called it, quoting the two verses in the entire Bible that mean the most to me. Posing as a priest, for God's sake, kidnapping me from a church! A better question in this situation is, _what is right?_"

Red said nothing, letting her vent her frustrations, her fears. He simply held her. After awhile, she quieted, and he spoke only three words:

"I am here."

* * *

Liz woke to find that Red was gone. She sat up numbly, convinced that she had to be dreaming. Why, after everything they had been through, after all of the promises he'd made to the contrary, would he all of a sudden decide to take off? He was not the kind of man to ever break a promise.

If he had not left of his own volition, someone had to have somehow coerced him to leave. To do that, a person would have to knock him out cold; either that, or explicitly threaten to harm her if he tried to resist. There were very few people who even knew about her connection to Red, as far as she knew.

Sudden dread hit her like a brick when she remembered the list. That goddamned list! Who knew how many dozens, how many _hundreds_ of people Red had on that list? And sooner or later, they would find out about her. Either through direct contact when Red chose to have them apprehended, or through the insidious underworld grapevine that seemed to have sprouted in the last few weeks.

Liz wondered if she should call Kaplan, check in and see if maybe she had heard from Red. As she was becoming more and more frantic, Red abruptly opened the compartment door, bearing a tray laden with food: pancakes drowning in syrup, topped with strawberries; scrambled eggs; bacon; sausage biscuits; and a small plastic bowl of sliced peaches. On the corner, balanced somewhat precariously, was a quart-sized carton of milk.

Liz was so relieved she could have wept. Thankfully, she was able to suppress her emotion, the sudden urge to grab hold of him by his shirt collar and slap him across the face. Instead she smiled, nodding in Red's direction. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Lizzie." He graced her with a crooked half-smile, setting the tray down on the side turndown table adjacent to the bed. He sat down and, taking a fork and butter knife out of the silverware napkin, began to cut the pancake into small pieces. Liz noted that there was only one pair of silverware, and wondered if he expected her to eat after him. The thought seemed to have not crossed his mind as he speared a slice of pancake, catching a bit of strawberry, and held the fork out to her. "Try this. I think you'll like it."

"Okay. . ." Liz took the proffered fork, noticing when she brought it to her mouth that she was _starving. _In short order, she put away the entire pancake, and set about eating the eggs too. Red watched her in silent amusement, congratulating himself for guessing the correct foods that Liz enjoyed. True, he might have gone overboard, but at least he had the certainty that all of the food would be eaten in the remainder of the trip. "Slow down," he advised mildly, indicating the unopened carton of milk. "Don't you want something to drink?"

"Mmm, yeah." Liz reached across the table at the same time he did, their fingers brushing together. The slight contact sent a surge of warmth shooting down her arm, and blood rushing to her face. She mentally cursed, disgusted with herself for having such a ridiculous, obvious reaction. It made no sense.

Here she had shared a bed with the man at least twice, allowed him to _spoon_ her, for God's sake, and now she was acting like a giggling schoolgirl with a crush just from a casual brush of their fingers? Liz nervously began to fidget, scratching the side of her head, the wispy strands of thin baby hair above her ear.

Until Red grabbed her hand, none too gently, holding it immobile. His expression darkened, his lips turning down. "Stop that," he commanded, scolding her as if she were a child. "Do you know how bad that is? You could pull your hair out, not to mention make your scalp bleed and mess up your braid."

He looked over her hand, frowning at her thin, ragged nails, bitten down to the quick. He laced his fingers through hers, hoping to put her at ease. It seemed to have the desired effect. Liz's embarrassment faded. She continued to hold his hand, holding the fork with the other to keep eating. She finished the eggs, and started in on the bacon. Red released her hand and opened the milk carton. Liz watched with interest as he tilted his head back, taking a series of long gulps, coming up for air (so to speak) after the third.

Red set the carton down, smacking his lips and grinning mischievously. "What was it you were about to do? Weren't you going to drink some milk? I think you ought to go ahead, dear, before it's all gone." "Right," Liz picked up the carton and took a few perfunctory sips. _God, it was good. _Liz looked at the carton, and noted that it was a pure, high-quality, organic blend. It cost over $5 at the supermarket.

Much as she liked it, Liz knew she was going to have to stick with buying the gallon of 2% at Aldi. For all the milk she drank, she would rack up quite the tab should she choose to switch brands. For now, though, she was going to drink it and by God, she was going to enjoy it.

She took a couple long swigs before replacing the carton on the table. "Are you going to eat? You know this is too much for one person to eat – for me, at least."

"Thank you, dear, that's considerate, but no. I had some coffee and a biscuit before bringing you your food."

"Why did you bring so much then?"

"I wasn't quite sure of exactly what you would like. Except for the pancakes, that is. I gathered what I assumed you would enjoy, and plenty of it. It has not escaped my notice that you have not eaten in 18 hours."

"Speaking of how long it's been, how long have we been on this train?"

"Oh, about 12 hours or so. We're en route to Chicago by way of Capitol Limited. I'm not sure yet if we're going all the way to Chicago, or if you and I will get off at the stop in Cleveland. That depends upon your preference."

"You're asking me where we're going? Since when do I get to decide?"

"Since I realized that you have not had the pleasure of going on vacation since . . ."

"That's not true! There was that trip Tom and I went on to Boston ―"

"Yes, and look how that turned out."

Red snorted derisively, reaching out to pick up the milk. "Un-uh!" Liz slapped his hand away, scowling petulantly as she slid the milk across the table away from him. "I think you've had enough. I'm going to drink the rest!" _Ugh, what the heck am I doing?! I sound like an idiot – a spoiled little brat! Why am I getting like this? Why do I _only_ act so childishly when I'm with him?_

Liz shook her head rapidly, loosening her carefully woven braid and resembling of all things a dog shaking off droplets of water after a bath. She leered at Red, hating his arrogant smirk, wanting to reach across the table and physically wipe it off his face. "And whose fault was that, I wonder?"

"Darling, I thought that was all water under the bridge. I've already told you that you can trust me."

"Trust? Is that what you think the problem is here – trust? Red, you proved to me that you were trustworthy the minute you allowed Garrick to take you hostage, tie you up and do God-knows-what to you in order to save me . . . the problem is you won't tell me anything! You've proven that, whatever else is going on, you're on my side. And you don't know how much that means to me, I can't – I literally can't fathom why you've been so loyal to me these past few months. You know, though, and that's what hurts me. It's like _you_ don't trust _me_. How long are you planning on keeping me in the dark? If you would just sit down and tell me one fucking thing, I'd —!"

"**Elizabeth**!" Red uttered her name with such vehemence in his voice that she flinched, backing away from him, pressing up against the wall. Seeing her terror Red sighed and cleared his throat, assuming a softer tone when he next spoke:

"Lizzie, I am sorry if I've frightened you. But you must understand, I only reacted so strongly because I care for you. For one, I am shocked to hear you use such vulgarity – young women should not speak with such ill manners. Second, I _do_ trust you. Whatever information I withhold from you is for your own protection, not an attempt to make you fearful or suspicious. In time, you will know everything that you need to. Can you be patient with me for just a bit longer?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"Alright. Now that that unpleasantness is out of the way, where shall we go?"

"This might sound crazy, but . . . can we go to Washington?"

Seeing his horrified look, Liz quickly elaborated: "Not the capital! Oh, no. I meant somewhere in Washington State. Why don't we go to Seattle?"

"Why not? Alright, Lizzie. We'll ride Capitol Limited to Chicago, and from there take another train to Seattle, alright?"

"Alright."


	3. Chapter 3

They arrived in Chicago at the emergence of dusk, when the sun had all but fully set and the moon was rising in the darkening sky. After sleeping the remaining hours of the trip, Liz was wide awake. Now it was she who had to wake Red, awkwardly patting his cheek while urging him "Get up, Red, we're at the end of the line! Red, are you alright?"

Red snorted and grunted irritably, blearily opening hazel-green eyes, narrowing them as he surveyed Liz's overly perky, energetic air. "Alright, alright, I'm awake. And yes, that should also serve as an answer to your question. What time is it?"

Liz held Red's wrist, looking at the face of his $7,000 Rolex. "It's quarter past 7. What do we do now?"

"Hmm." Red frowned, mentally sorting through their options. "Let me see. It is far too late for us to catch a train to Seattle now ― and before you say anything, young lady, I mean too late for me. You are evidently set to go, but I'm afraid this old man needs his beauty sleep." He laughed self-deprecatingly, casually hooking an arm around Liz's elbow and steering her out of the compartment.

"Where are we gonna go?" she asked, worriedly noticing that Red's face was pale, and he was breathing deeply, as if he were in pain. "Go," he commanded softly, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze. "Just go wherever I tell you." Liz nodded mutely. When they stepped off the train they found an overcrowded station, people packed like sardines on the boarding platforms.

Red tightened his hold on her elbow as she deftly maneuvered through the masses, loud obnoxious college kids on break; whining children who wanted ice cream or to go to bed; and impatient parents yelling at them to _shut up, just hold on a damn minute, let them think!_

On the other side of the throng, they came upon what seemed to be a closed, or at least privately owned, street, devoid of traffic. Red sighed haggardly, leaning heavily against the wall for support. "Red!" Liz put an arm around his shoulders, holding him upright as he fished in his coat pocket for something. "Here . . ." He held out a small, rectangular black device, pressing it into her free hand.

"A cell phone? I thought you didn't use one of these."

"You're right, I don't, usually. I carry this one in case I need to contact an associate in a hurry. In case of an emergency." Red's face suddenly contorted and he groaned, clutching his chest. "Oh God! Oh _Jesus,_ Red, please tell me you aren't having a heart attack!"

Liz sputtered frantically, flipping open the phone to dial for help. "Who do I call, who do I call?!" Calling for an ambulance was definitely out of the question. She scrolled rapidly through his contacts, none of the names ringing a bell. "Oh God, please, help us!"

Liz steeled herself, knowing that she would have to begin CPR in a matter of moments, should Red's symptoms continue. She sat down on the sidewalk, turning Red so that she was cradling his head in her lap. His eyes were closed, but the severity of his symptoms seemed to have abated.

He was still breathing somewhat heavily, but a gentle press of her fingertips against his carotid artery revealed that his pulse was decelerating. Liz held her finger to the pulse point, counting the seconds that passed. When his pulse had more or less returned to normal, Red's eyes fluttered open. He blinked up at her owlishly, as if he could not quite remember where he was.

"Lizzie . . .?" he mumbled, sounding uncharacteristically open and vulnerable. "Have you called anyone?"

Liz laughed until tears burned in her eyes, bending down to joyously kiss his cheek. Even in the encroaching darkness, she was able to make out his stunned expression, the first time she had ever truly seen him that way. "Lizzie, what is wrong?"

"Nothing!" she crowed in manic consolation. "I haven't called anyone yet. Who do you want me to call?"

"Never mind, I am alright; the worst is over now."

"Now — you mean this has happened to you before? What the hell was that, anyway? I thought you were having a heart attack!"

"I hate that I worried you so. It is easy to see why you would mistake what just happened with a heart attack?"

"So what _was_ it? Dammit, Red, just tell me!"

"What you just witnessed was a panic attack. A rather insidious one, the worst I've had in years."

"A panic attack? You suffer from panic attacks."

"Yes. I have had them off and on for the last 20 years. I also have a touch of claustrophobia, which no doubt exacerbated my anxiety."

"Wait a minute. You started acting weird before we even got off the train. Did you feel claustrophobic even then?"

"No. That was a different matter. I had begun feeling poorly, and lay down to get some rest. It was less than an hour later that you woke me up."

"What were you 'feeling poorly' about, if I may ask?"

Red smiled grimly, his eyes visibly darkening. "Of course you may ask, my dear. However, please respect that I may not answer."

"Of course," Liz said gruffly, not bothering to hide her bitterness. "Just one more unanswered question, one more mystery in the enigma that is Raymond Reddington!"

"I apologize. Sweetheart, you have every right to be upset. However, if it is not too much trouble . . ."

"What?"

"Would you please give me my phone?"

Grudgingly, Liz acquiesced, glaring through slitted eyes as Red thumbed through his list of contacts. "I am not going to trouble any of my associates at this point. There is a wonderful taxi service in the city that I have used numerous times. _McCloskey Bros. + Co._, have you heard of them? They have branches in New York, D.C., all across the country ― oh, excuse me for a moment. Hello? This is Jim Speight. I need to request a cab at the corner of Depot and Bledsoe Streets. Yes, thank you. Goodbye."

Red hung up, yawning as he slipped the phone back into his coat pocket. "Now, then. Lizzie, be a dear and help me up?" He sat up wordlessly, while Liz cushioned his back with a supportive hand. He made it to his feet, and pulled her up after him. "Jim Speight," he stated brusquely, answering the question before she could ask; "That is the alias I use most often when traveling in the central and western states. I have a safe house nearby. We'll spend the night there, and board a train to Seattle in the morning."

"Okay. That's fine with me."

Liz took a deep breath, folding her arms across her chest. Truthfully, she was tired, her earlier exuberance quickly diminished and replaced with heavy fatigue and lethargy. She was emotionally drained, numb. She'd thought for the second time in the same day that she was going to lose him, the one man who she now knew she was never going to be rid of, and no longer wanted to.

_Leaving someone behind, or being left behind; I wonder which is more painful?_ She had only been the one to be left, and she knew in no uncertain terms that the resulting pain was agonizing. She wondered if Red had ever been left. He didn't seem like the type of person that anyone would want to leave. And yet, had not she tried to do the same, and so very long ago?

Forget the fact that that he had left his own family. He couldn't still be that same man, could he? And whatever his reasons for leaving were, they were bound to be justifiable. In the same way his attempt to frame Tom, no matter how infuriating and apparently duplicitous his actions had been — she could no longer doubt his assertions, his inexplicably accurate knowledge that her husband was (and perhaps still is) a dangerous criminal. _But then, he himself is a criminal so . . . where do I draw the line? What makes Red any more worthy of my trust than Tom?_

"_You know the problem is with drawing lines in the sand? With a breath of air they disappear."_

"I have never lied to you." Red looked at her strangely, his mouth scrunched in a pitiful frown, almost sorrowful. He seemed to have read her mind. "I cannot blame you for doubting me though. I would not trust me, if the roles were reversed." _Yes,_ he thought bleakly. _If there is one lesson in this life I have taught you, it is to never trust _anyone. He began to cough drily, almost as if he were just clearing his throat. He wanted Liz to say something, anything. He was desperate.

When she finally did speak, it was with a soft tenderness that she had never used with him before. "I know that. Whatever has happened between us, I know that you would not be untruthful with me – unless, as it were, it was for my own protection, and even then, I seriously doubt that you would blatantly lie to me. . ." Liz exhaled deeply, her breath billowing thick clouds of fog in the air. "Jeez, it's cold! How long is this cab going to take?"

As if on cue, a dark blue Lincoln drove up, coming to a stop inches away from where they stood. The window slowly rolled down, and a gaunt, thin man glared out at them, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. "You Mr. Speight?"

"Yes, I am. Pleasure to meet you." Red extended a hand for him to shake, but the man simply snorted rudely, rolling the window back up. Liz gaped in horror at the exchange, feeling literal pain at the man's unbelievable incivility. "Well, he certainly is not a very polite young man." Red clucked his tongue disapprovingly and opened the back door of the cab. "After you, Lizzie."

Liz gulped, but offered no resistance as she dutifully got in the car, sliding across the battered leather seats. There were several scratches in the upholstery. The whole car stank of cigarettes and God knew what else. As she reluctantly buckled her seat belt, Liz could feel the driver's stare boring into her skull.

She unconsciously stiffened, crossing one leg over the other, assuming a posture that was meant to convey meekness and humility. She held her breath, anger surging through her like a tidal wave. In 30 seconds, she had the man profiled: a narcissist, self-righteous sort who used religion, verbal threats and physical abuse to keep his wife and children in absolute subjugation at home. Simply put: a complete bastard.

Red slid in after her, covering her hand with his own, gently nudging her fingers until, one by one, she released them from her tightly wound fist. He buckled himself in and slammed the door, startling the driver from his perverse fixation. "We're on our way to Bridewell Terrace in Wheaton. I trust you know where that is?" He grinned graciously, causing the man to mutter something hateful in his own language, shifting the gear into drive.

As the car began to move, Red leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes as if he was fatigued. He squeezed Liz's hand, spreading her fingers apart, lacing them with his own. Liz ducked her head, keeping her gaze on the floor so that she would not have to see the asshole driver staring at her in the rear view mirror.

Their cab turned onto a main street, joining a throng of other cars. It was 8:15 according to the digital clock on the dashboard. For many, the night was just beginning. As he slept, or rather conveyed the pretense of sleep, Liz glanced at him aside, carefully noting that some color had returned to his face, and that he appeared to be breathing evenly. Whatever damage the panic attack had done, for now, at least, Red was in the clear. Under her breath, Liz whispered a small prayer of gratitude.

Though she was no longer sure of the specifics, her life experiences, coupled with a more or less austere Catholic upbringing, had led her to believe that there must be some sort of higher power, some divine spirit or being that on occasion interceded on her behalf. Call it God, Fate, karma, whatever, _something_ had purposed her meeting Red, for reasons she could not begin to comprehend. She was no longer certain that she wanted to comprehend it.

_"I can lead you to the truth, but I cannot make you believe it."_

Liz flexed her fingers within Red's grip, exploring the distinct lines etched along his palm. She had heard of a sort of pseudoscience, an occult practice in which a person could 'read' and decipher these lines, making predictions about a person's future, telling their personality, how many kids they would have, even measure how long they would live. She wondered what sort of results would be gleaned from reading Red's palm.

Liz became so caught up in her thoughts that she didn't notice the cab had stopped. Red lightly shook her shoulder bringing her back to awareness. "We're here, darling." He spoke loudly, shooting a warning glare at the lecherous driver, who withered under his glare. "What do I owe you, sir?"

"The total fare comes to $60.50," the man sputtered, his tone cowed and submissive. Red reached into his pocket and pulled out a $100 bill, casually pressing it against the driver's outstretched palm. "Thank you for your service. Please keep the change." "Th-thank you, Mr. Speight! You are a blessed man!"

"I wouldn't go that far," Red demurred. He opened the door and climbed out, extending his elbow, which Liz gracefully accepted, stepping out onto the gravel road beside him. She lightly closed the door and gladly watched as the taxi traveled down the road, turning to the right and out of sight. "Wow!" Liz exploded, tightening her grip on Red's elbow. "That guy was such an asshole!"

"Yes, yes, Lizzie, I concur. The man was very uncouth. Does that necessitate that you take your anger out on me?"

"Oops. Sorry . . ."

Liz slipped out of his hold, falling into step behind him. She trailed after him dutifully for what seemed like an hour, until her feet began to hurt. She stopped abruptly mid stride, complaining that her feet were 'liable to fall off if she took one more step.'

Red craned his neck to look back at her, lip curled up in a wry half smile. "We're almost there," he called encouragingly. "There is only about a quarter of a mile left." "Reeed . . . ." Liz drawled his name mournfully, sticking out her lower lip again. "I told you my feet hurt too much! If you want me to make it, you're going to have to let me rest here for awhile or carry me the rest of the way."

She was obviously joking, but Red came toward her, turning his back to her and sinking to his knees in the soggy ground, practically ruining his grey Armani slacks. "What is the holdup, Lizzie?"

"You're joking, right? Tell me you're joking ― I was!"

"I would, Lizzie, but that would be a lie. I am being perfectly serious: I am tired, and ready to get to the house. The way I see it, I can either take you with me, or leave you out here to wander till morning. I would pick the easier route, if I were you, but the choice is entirely yours. What do you say, dear?"

Liz grudgingly conceded, climbing awkwardly onto his back, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "Thank you. I assure you, you've made the right decision." "Please shut up, Red."

He complied, silently trudging through the woodland, coming up on the 'safe house' within a half hour. The house was a small, squat, ugly structure – a grey shotgun house literally in the middle of nowhere. Shabby, and badly in need of a paint job, it was unlike any other 'safe house' she had ever seen.

It especially wasn't consistent with Red's refined taste. Liz kept her comments to herself, sliding off his back and watching with interest as he retrieved a key from underneath an empty flower pot on the porch. "Good! Right where I left it."

He fumbled around in the dark for the door knob, putting the key in and unlocking it easily. The door opened with an eerie screech, and Red stepped inside, Liz trailing close behind. She clung to his hand, fidgeting as Red searched along the wall for the light, flicking the switch to dimly illuminate the house, revealing drab, cement walls, grey linoleum flooring, and a black, leather convertible couch against the back.

To the side, there was a small kitchenette, with a mini-fridge, sink, microwave, and small cupboard. Liz guessed that the closed door behind the kitchenette must be the bathroom, but she cringed at the thought of what it might look like.

"Close the door," he said curtly, moving quickly across the room. "I'll be out shortly." He had to use the bathroom, of course. He was in such a hurry that he did not shut the door all the way behind him. As she heard the sound of him urinating, Liz tried desperately to think of something (anything) else. What was Tom doing now? Did he care that she was gone? Did he even notice? _You know what? I don't care anymore. To hell with Tom Keen!_

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the toilet flushing, water running (so, the bathroom had a sink, too) and Red's silkily seductive voice calling her name: "Lizzie? Please come in here for a moment."

"Um, Red. . ."

"Darling, trust me, you needn't fear any untoward advances on my part. Strikingly beautiful as you are, I respect the fact that you are a married woman. Please come in."

"Okay." Liz crossed the distance to the bathroom, pushing the door open with a tentative hand. She found Red sitting on top of the toilet, lid (thankfully) closed, and the water still running in the sink. The sink was unexpectedly massive, large enough for a person to sit in. It was made of marble, a beautiful bluish green shade that was not quite teal and not quite topaz. It was beautiful; she was going to have to ask Red the name of that color. She wanted to use it as the color of the wallpaper in her kitchen back home.

"Take your hair down." Red stood up behind her, pushing her gently against the basin. Liz pulled the black hair tie, freeing whatever bit of her hair it still held. What had hours earlier been a pretty organic braid had reverted to a tangled, god-awful mess. A small part of her was wary, questioning what exactly Red had in mind. For the most part, she was just glad that her hair was about to make contact with water again. She couldn't remember the last time she had washed it — it could be anywhere from 3-5 days. _Yuck!_

"Is the water too cold?"

Liz stuck her hand under the faucet. "No, it's fine." "Good. Lean your head forward."

She did, and Red threaded his fingers through her hair, gently turning her head side to side to get all of it wet. "Keep your eyes closed." He opened the cabinet, taking out a small size shampoo bottle, one of many he had indiscriminately taken from the numerous hotels he had stayed at in the past year.

Strange as it seemed, hoarding small bottles of hotel shampoo was something of a hobby of his, the way others collected stamps or marbles. The bottle he selected promised to make hair smell like gardenias. He unscrewed the cap, took a whiff to make sure, and upended the bottle over Liz's head. The bottle was so small that it scarcely mattered if he used the whole thing. He rubbed the shampoo into her hair, massaging her scalp in the process. Liz reveled in the press and feel of his fingers, lulled and comforted by his touch.

Unbidden, a sudden memory: _Liz is a small child, not yet four years old. She is in the tub. The water is not too hot or too cold, but she is crying. Mommy is holding her head in her hands, holding her too tight. 'It hurts, Mommy! You're hurting me!' Her mother pushes her down into the water, scratching her cheeks and scalp roughly with her sharp fingernails. 'I don't care! Elizabeth, hold still, goddammit! Turn your head, damn you! If I get shampoo in your eyes, I swear to God ―!"_

As suddenly as it came, the memory dissipated. Liz was no longer a little girl, and her mother was long dead. She could not hurt her anymore, could no longer scratch her or slap her face, no longer slam her tiny skull against the white tiled wall. All that was left was the water, and Red's tender hands, not her mother's, gingerly rinsing the sudsy liquid from her hair. Red turned the water off, wrapping a towel around Liz's head.

"I'm sorry I don't have a hair dryer here, but this shouldn't be too bad." He started to massage her scalp, slowly squeezing water droplets out of her hair. He pretended not to notice the tears that were mixed in with the water, humming a classical tune that was vaguely familiar.

Liz held his hands still, pulling the towel off her head. She looked up into his eyes, soft and misty, and with that her own tears dried. "Get rid of it," she ordered, her voice cold and hard as flint. "Please."

"Alright." Red left the room, and Liz was alone with her turbulent emotion. That memory, that long buried experience she had successfully forgotten for so long, had slipped back to the surface of her mind. _But why?_

Red returned promptly, a pair of black shears and double-sided comb in hand. "Are you sure you want me to do this?"

"Yes." She sat down on the carpeted floor in front of the commode, folding her legs under her Indian-style. Red sat on the seat cover, draping the towel around Liz's shoulders. Humming the same song, he separated her hair into sections, gently detangling the strands. Liz closed her eyes as he began to cut it, snipping bit by bit, the loose ends falling to the floor. After some time Red began to sing, the words soft and soothing:

"_Nessun dorma, nessun dorma! Tu __pure__ o Principessa nella tua fredda stanza, guardi le stele, che tremano d'Amore, e di __Speranza__. . ."_

His words hypnotized her. He sounded so wistful and sad that she wept, her body wracked with silent sobs. Her tremors slowed his progress, but he waited patiently. By the time he had reached the song's end, Liz was still again. Red continued as though nothing had happened. The remainder of the experience passed in silence, but in those quiet moments, Liz was closer to Red than she had ever been.

She didn't know if she'd ever want to leave.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** The so-called 'safehouse' in the chapter is located in the sticks, way out in the Forest Preserve District of DuPage County, Illinois, about 30 miles southwest of Chicago. I wanted to create a place far removed from the characters' usual comforts and amenities, a place they would have no other choice but deal with each other.

I am still trying to get a hold on Liz's personality, so again apologize if she seems OOC. She seems so brusque and stilted in the show that I wanted to play out her insecurities and vulnerability. I know she's cried a lot so far. . . but things will be looking up from this point. After all, it's almost Christmas! ;-)


	4. Chapter 4

Afterward, in the clear oblong bathroom mirror, Liz carefully considered her reflection, now as thoroughly transformed externally as she was inside. Red had done fine work, cutting her hair into a crisp pixie style, bangs slightly longer than the body, framing her forehead at a leftward slant. In short, she loved it.

Neither she nor Red slept. In spite of his professed exhaustion, Red remained wide awake, absently stroking a hand through Liz's hair as she laid her head in his lap, listening intently as he read to her from a travelogue written by an acquaintance of his – John Something-Or-Other, who had traveled extensively throughout Washington, and published an account of his rather unique experiences in Seattle.

43 at the time of the book's publication, the author had spent much of his time in the city prowling through Capitol Hill, engaging in reckless sexual encounters with 'doe-eyed, supple satyrs,' some as young as 15. His graphic descriptions of these romps made Liz blush, but Red did not react, relaying them in the bland monotone he used when he was bored.

"Red, please, stop!" Liz grabbed the book, tossing it on the floor with a disgusted snort. "Please tell me this guy was nabbed for pedophilia! What happened to him, anyway?"

"He died a penniless pariah, his body half-rotted with syphilis, shortly after his book was published. That must have been, oh, about 10 years ago."

"Oh my God, that is disgusting!"

"A fitting end for a man of his ilk, wouldn't you agree?"

"Do you mean —?"

"A child molester and a rapist. A depraved, derelict wretch who could not control his urges. What were you thinking of?"

"Never mind. When are we going back to the city? You said we were going to get a train. Are we going to take a sleeper car with Amtrak again?"

"Yes. We are going to walk to Wheaton – that's about 6 miles – and then we'll get a bus back to Chicago. From there we'll take the Empire Builder to Seattle. That shouldn't take more than a couple of days. I have a penthouse apartment in Madison Park, and ―"

"You know what? I think I've just decided we might as well stay here."

"Stay here? But I thought you didn't like this house."

"It's not so bad. A little bare, sure, and rundown, but a house is a house. Besides, Wheaton is close, and it seems pretty nice to me. Why don't we just stay here for a while?"

"Lizzie, as charmingly sweet as you make it sound, I get the feeling that most of this is coming from the fact that you do not want to walk in the woods again. Am I wrong?"

"No." Liz's admission was blunt, but before Red could commence gloating, she added "You're not _wrong_, but there's more to it: We've already traveled hundreds of miles, and Seattle's still over 2,000 miles away. I thought the whole point of you taking me away from D. C. was so I could decompress. Here we are, virtually in the middle of nowhere, with civilization still within reach. Um, where exactly are we anyway?"

"If you want an approximation, we are deep within an oak forest popularly called 'Wood Ridge.' It is one of many parcels of land protected and maintained by the Forest Preserve District of DuPage County."

"What? You mean to tell me you have a _house_ on state property? How in the —"

"_Language,_ Lizzie. Yes, I have a house on state property. Does that really surprise you? You know that there are thousands of individuals who do the exact same thing. What is it that you call it – _'squatting?'_ "

"Yes, and you're right on that point, plenty of people do it. I just wonder how you haven't been found out yet."

"Is that really so unbelievable? First of all, this area of the preserve is rarely visited. There are no hiking trails, no ponds to fish in, no development. It is essentially a woodland interspersed with prairie ground here and there. I had this house transplanted here in the 90s. It belonged to my grandmother's family in Alabama during the Depression."

"Seriously? You had your grandmother's house moved from Alabama to a preserved forest in the middle of Illinois, literally?"

"You say that almost as if it surprises you. You should know me well enough by now to know that if there is something I want, I use whatever means necessary to attain it."

". . ."

"Lizzie, you're speechless. Is it truly such an odd thing, after all that you have seen and heard these past few months?"

"No, I guess not."

"Good. As I was going to say, you need not worry about us being discovered here. The water and electricity are provided by a water mill. We are entirely off the grid."

"That's interesting. So what you're saying is, 'yes, we can stay here at least through Christmas?' "

Red smiled warmly in confirmation.

"Sweetheart, we will stay here for as long as you like."

**. . . . . **

She was loath to admit it, but there had been several times in her life when Liz had simply wanted to disappear, vanish without a trace. She'd wished she could pack up her life in a tote bag and just take off, never looking back.

'_Never look back,' _her mother used to say. _'Never look back, and never explain.'_

Liz understood from an early age that she was burdensome, a fetter tying her mother down to one home, one place, one life. Whenever she was in a rare, affectionate mood, she would pull out old leather albums, black-and-white and sepia photographs of her more adventurous life:

as a young girl of 6, wearing hose and a pretty white dress and veil for her first Communion; at 8, with waist-length, curly hair, wearing jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, and cowgirl boots; a young teenager in culottes and a peasant blouse, standing among a throng of peaceful revolutionaries at Woodstock; and best of all, a photo of Liz's parents on their wedding day in 1981, her mother's hair pulled back in a graceful French braid, her swollen stomach straining against the delicate lace material of her dress.

Liz had loved these old photographs, pored over them, committed them to memory to the extent that she could reconstruct the events in her mind as if she had lived them herself. That was why she had not been sad when all of the photos were destroyed in the fire. But what had it been like for her mother to lose _everything?_ Try as she might, Liz could never bring herself to feel sorry for the woman. It was not long after the fire that she left, leaving Liz an orphan with few prospects and no hope for the future. Whatever else had happened in the woman's life, Liz could never forgive her mother for abandoning her.

Liz hated the holidays for exactly this reason. While for many Christmas was a time for joy and nostalgic reflection, for her it was a miserable, melancholy time. Now that she would be spending it with Red, she wasn't sure how she should feel. She no longer cared about nor gave much thought to what Tom was doing. She tried not to think of anything much beyond the here and now:

Red had drifted off to sleep, his deep, even breaths tickling her face. He had fallen asleep shortly after Liz took the book away from him, still holding her in a tight embrace. She didn't mind. If anything, Liz was comforted. She really was here with him, in the middle of nowhere. As far as she was concerned, she _had_ disappeared, and she found that disappearance was a beautiful thing.

She tried to sleep, but her mind was racing. Being cut off from the outside world had its drawbacks, boredom being chief among them. Carefully easing out of Red's hold, Liz decided to explore the house. She was amazed when he did not immediately jolt awake. Usually the slightest noise caught his attention. That he remained deep in slumber spoke volumes about his exhaustion.

Once free, Liz looked around with an eager eye. She decided that she would clean the place up, as soon as she was able to locate a vacuum, broom, and dust pan. She made a mental note to ask Red when he woke up. Setting her sights on the oak bookshelf against the right wall, she thought she would pass the time browsing through Red's collection.

She wasn't sure what to expect, but she felt a sense of anticipation as she approached the shelf. She knew that one could infer a lot about a person by the books that they read. She had so far only seen Red read newspapers and magazines - _The New York Times_ and _Forbes_, dry, professional periodicals that were read by just about every professional she knew. Even Tom had taken to reading one or the other, lately doing so at the breakfast table.

The resentment and growing mistrust on her part had made their every encounter painfully awkward. Liz was grateful for the barrier the magazine/newspaper provided, but all the same she hated it for its less subtle, nefarious purpose: serving as camouflage. Her husband had become a distant, unapproachable stranger. All this, and she had no proof, aside from Red's repeated warnings that she should be wary of him, that Tom was anything other than the goofy, laid-back hipster teacher persona that he portrayed to the world.

Running her fingers across the book spines, Liz found an impressive assortment: Ayn Rand's _Atlas Shrugged_ and _The Fountainhead;_ Dostoevsky's _ Crime_ _and Punishment;_ A_ Tale of Two Cities, David Copperfield, _and_ Oliver Twist_ by Charles Dickens; _The Scarlet Letter_ by Nathaniel Hawthorne; and the tome that was of most interest to her - a very old black Bible with a genuine leather cover, the lettering on the spine greatly faded. Liz took the Bible off the shelf, wiping away a thick layer of dust to reveal a name inscribed in gold gilt lettering: _**Alma Rourke**** Reddington**._

Intrigued, Liz opened to the front page, and found that the Bible was a keepsake, a gift _'To Alma from Richard, with love. Wed the 16th of June, 1910.'_ It was meant to be a family Bible, with numerous pages to record the family heritage, dates of birth of children, graduations, funerals, etc. Besides the dedication page, all of the other pages were blank. Liz sighed in frustration and put the Bible back on the shelf. There was nothing else to interest her there.

She walked over to the kitchenette and opened the cupboard, finding several cans of beans, fruit, and packages of linguine noodles. It was well-stocked, considering that Red probably only visited once or twice a year. It was smart of him to keep this place after all, functioning for what it was: a refuge.

Liz reckoned that since the food items were nonperishable, they should be fine to make something for dinner. She settled on linguine, bringing water to boil in a cooking pan she found under the sink, thoroughly rinsing it out with hot water. The stove didn't have a timer, so she'd have to keep track of the time using Red's wrist watch.

She padded back to the couch in her bare feet, her steps a whisper of skin against the linoleum. She sat down on the floor in front of the couch and held Red's hand as softly and subtly as she could. He did not wake up, but flexed his fingers and grunted softly, his eyes fluttering wildly beneath the lids. Liz laughed quietly before fixing her eyes on the watch face, observing with interest as the long second hand ticked on.

When she became bored, she surveyed the skin of his hand. It was remarkably smooth, free of wrinkles or calluses. He wasn't all that old - Liz estimated that he had to be less than 55, if that - and took good care of himself. He was a criminal mastermind, more brains than brawn, leaving the more mundane and manual labor to his subordinates. She did not for one second doubt his strength: she had seen good and well what became of the Stewmaker, and Garrick too.

The same hand she now held so tenderly had been the instrument of many deaths, had crushed men's larynges to powder, driven a knife between ribs, pulled the trigger to put a bullet in another's head. She knew that Red could be a monster. _Who is the monster, though, and who is the man? Where do I begin to separate one from the other? _Who was Raymond Reddington really?

'_Everything about me is a lie. But if anyone can give me a second chance, it's you. . .'_

Liz gradually became dazed by the rumination, snapping back to awareness when she felt Red's hand close around hers and heard his low, husky chuckle. "It is very irresponsible of you to have lapses in attention when cooking something on the stovetop."

"Oh shit!" Liz leaped up, rushing to move the pot off the burner, setting it down in the sink. "The water just boiled over some. The noodles look fine to me."

"What a relief. I would hate it if you let perfectly good pasta go to waste."

"Ha ha." Liz pushed the lid down and upended the pot, bit by bit draining the excess water through the small slits in the lid used to release steam.

"What are you doing, Lizzie?"

"Draining the water. It would have been a hell of a lot easier if I'd been able to find a strainer!"

"There is one. It's under the sink with the pots and pans, somewhere."

"Good to know. Next time I make linguine, I'll be sure to get it. Guess I didn't look hard enough this time."

"You should have told me you were hungry. I would have gone to the city to get you whatever your heart desired."

"That's sweet, Red, but you're not going anywhere. After everything that's happened, I can't believe you're awake."

"It is nearly 1:00 in the morning. I have been sleeping for nearly three hours. Do you not think that is sufficient?"

"Excuse me for sounding like a broken record, but please tell me you're joking! I'm lucky if I get six or seven, but most people have to get at least eight hours! God Red, how do you even function?"

Red smiled wanly, his eyes shining with a sheen of amusement. "Lizzie, has anyone ever told you how adorable you are? When you don't quite believe something, your eyes widen like saucers, and your nose wrinkles at the tip. It's really very endearing, if you don't mind me saying so."

"What if. . . what if I _do_ mind?" Liz again felt heat rush to her face, cursing her damnable English ancestors for passing on their sickly, near-translucent pallor. She could never conceal her embarrassment from anyone, least of all Red.

Red's smile widened, his teeth baring in a feral grin. "That is a good question, Lizzie. I had not even considered the possibility. If I had done so, I never would have said such a thing." He had never been so open, never one to waste words on empty flattery or pleasantries. Such words coming from his lips could only be genuine, and all the more bittersweet for Liz to hear.

She didn't know how to respond, so she didn't. She looked in the cupboard for a couple plates, rinsed and dried them, and used a fork to dig up two plates full of noodles from the pot. Realizing too late that she had no spaghetti sauce, she improvised by sprinkling a generous amount of salt and pepper onto the noodles for flavor.

"We need to get some spaghetti sauce when we go to Wheaton. And some parmesan cheese. I want to make linguine at least one more time here, and I want to do it right."

"Yes, dear. We will go to the city later today. As soon as you and I have gotten sufficient rest. In the meantime, we shall have to make do. I have the utmost confidence in your abilities, excepting your previous negligence allowing the water to boil over."

"Why do you always talk like that?" Liz blurted the question, one that she had frequently wondered but never thought to ask aloud.

"Talk like what, Lizzie?"

"Like you're trying to hypnotize or manipulate me. How come you never talk to me like a normal person?"

"And what does 'a normal person' talk like?"

"That's not what I meant. . . I'm sorry. Your manner of speech is just. . . unusual."

"Yes, unusual in that I refrain from using slang or vulgarity. I speak to everyone with at least a modicum of respect. You know this."

"Yeah, I know. But with me, it seems like you talk differently than you do with anyone else. . ."

"Of course I do, darling. I am on far more intimate terms with you than I am with anyone else! Tell me, do you speak to Agent Ressler in the same manner that you do with your husband?"

"That is not a fair comparison! _You_ know _that_."

"Indeed. Please accept my apology. Now, I know that this is a drastic change of subject, but —"

"But what?"

Red's stomach grumbled loudly, evoking a sheepish smirk.

"If it is all the same to you, can we take a break from this conversation and eat?"


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing Red and Liz did when they arrived in Wheaton was look for a car.

Red had a contact in the city who operated a used car dealership, running the business out of their mobile home, an eyesore of blue corrugated metal with grit-grey shutters. The yard was well-maintained, with half a dozen cars sprinkled throughout. As they approached the front steps, the screen door screeched open and Red was caught in a bear hug, the proprietor whooping a joyous greeting:

"Raymon' Reddington, that you? Glory be, I ain't seen you in years! How've you been, hon?!"

The woman was tall and stocky, able to look Red straight in the eyes as she drew back, eyes crinkled with mirth as she grinned ear to ear. Liz smiled politely in the background, trying hard not to let her intimidation show. It wasn't often she was unsettled by anyone, but this woman, a hulking mass of muscle in a black flannel lumberjack shirt, black sweatpants and red sneakers, was pretty unsettling.

"Hello Aubrey. It is good to see you again. I'm doing well, lying low for a while you know, for the holiday. . . How have you been, dear?"

"Been pretty good, more or less. You know, we all got our problems, but someone's always got it a lot worse. The Good Lord's takin' good care of me, so I can't complain. I been missing you something awful, and now here you are! You gonna come in and sit a spell?"

"Yes, I think we will come in for a while. Do you happen to have that tea I like?"

"I sure do! Daddy sends up a whole crate full every now and then. Whoa now, who's this you have here?"

Aubrey's blue eyes settled on Liz, who by now was chewing her fingernails in nervousness, her staring at the ground. "This is my friend Lizzie," Red said simply. "She is spending the holiday with me this year."

"Is that right?"

Aubrey sauntered past Red, getting right up in Liz's face. Liz balked, but stayed rooted to the spot, holding her breath as the woman closely scrutinized her head to toe. After a lengthy, uncomfortable silence, she smiled that same friendly smile and stuck out a hand. Liz accepted, struggling not to wince at the woman's vice-like grip. "She sure is pretty, Ray! I like this one a lot better than that other one you been seeing, that Oriental woman. What was her name — Lola?"

"Luli. I appreciate the compliment, but can't help but feel indignant on her behalf. Unfortunately, Luli passed away a few weeks ago."

"Oh God, Ray, I'm sorry! If I'd a known, I never would've said ―"

"It's alright, Aubrey. How were you supposed to know? Anyway, it's all in the past. Now, I hate to sound like a prig, but are you going to keep us out here all day? It is rather cold out, you know."

"Course it is! Come on in."

Aubrey held the door open for them as Red entered the humble abode, Liz trailing after him, clinging to his shirttail, smearing little flecks of blood on the white material where her ragged, bitten down nails touched the cloth.

The inside of the home was clean and organized, the living room furnished with a blue velveteen La-Z-boy and matching loveseat. The coffee table was so shiny Liz could see her reflection in the glass before sitting down.

She expected Red to sit down next to her, but instead he took a seat in the recliner, crossing one leg over the other, hands planted firmly on the armrests. In that moment, Liz hated him. As Aubrey padded over to the kitchenette to brew the tea, Liz shot Red a glare so baleful it could have curdled milk.

_I hope you know how much I hate you right now. You are going to pay for this!_

Red's lips curled in a lazy smirk, and he playfully winked at her as if to say _Now, now._

"Done! Best thing about this Lipton, it takes all of 60 seconds to make. You want any serving cup in particular, Ray? Want something to eat, maybe?"

"No thank you, Aubrey. I have no preference in drinking glasses."

"Alright, then. Styrofoam it is!"

She poured two cups full of tea, and one in each hand, brought them over to her guests, first to Red and then, plopping down right beside her, to Liz.

"Good to meet you, Lizzie. My name's Aubrey Roarke, case you didn't know. This one here —" she shot a wounded look at Red ― "He don't talk about me much. I know he works hard and he's a busy man, but I hold on to hope that one of these days he'll start comin' round more often. He don't go down south no more. It's almost like he's ashamed to be related to us Roarkes!"

"That is not true, Aubrey, and you know it. I've told you, my business requires that I travel all over the world. I had been out of the country for five years until September. But since you bring them up, how are your parents these days?"

"Doing pretty good, I reckon. Daddy calls every now and then, and Momma finally retired. I reckon she's never gonna leave the Montgomery County at this rate. She sure don't like that I've moved up here – says she don't see how I can stand all these 'highfalutin city folks.' Helps some Billy Graham used to live here; she figures he might'a left some mark on the locals, helped 'em know what good Christian ways is. Lot of folks 'round here's _Catholic_," Aubrey spat the word like it was a curse, narrowing her eyes until she saw Red's reproachful frown.

"Take care what you say about Catholics in front of me, Bree. You should know that I still adhere to the Mother Church. Lizzie here is also a Catholic; so please refrain from making any more disparaging comments."

"Glory, Ray! After all that's happened, you still cling to that old Popish garbage? Lord!" She flashed Liz a piteous frown, reaching out to pat her hand as if to lessen the insult.

"Now, I ain't got nothing against Catholics, per se, so much as I dislike their whole hi'rarchy and such. You know, Catholics is good Christian people, I'm sure, just somewhat misguided . . . oh honey, please don't think less of me, I say this out of genuine Christian love and hope someday you'll come to know Jesus Christ as your own personal Lord and Savior!"

"Um . . . thank you." Liz took a few sips of tea to give herself time to think of a reply. "Wow, this is good! What's it called?"

"Aw thanks, hon. That's Lipton ice tea, with a little bit of lemon flavor. I'm glad you like it."

"Bree, as much as I've enjoyed the visit, I'm afraid I'm here for business. I need a car for the duration of our stay."

"Shoot, I just about forgot! I can talk your ear off till the cows come home! You know which one you want?"

"Yes, I was thinking that the black Jetta would be best. What can you tell me about it?"

"The Jetta's real good, bought it off a man needed some quick cash. It's a 2009 model, gets 25 miles to the gallon. Got about 37,000 miles put on it so far. What you been doing till today, Ray, walking everywhere?"

"Bree, I thank you for agreeing to do business with me, but please do not try to pry any further into my private life."

"Right, okay. Sorry Ray. Why don't we go on outside and I'll show you the car?"

Red smiled graciously before reaching into his pocket. He handed Aubrey a thick wad of bills. "I trust your assessment. We will take it."

. . . . .

The car was pretty nice. The interior was soft leather and the front seats had built-in warming devices. Red fiddled with the knobs on the radio while Liz drove through the city, looking for a place to shop for groceries. Red allowed her to drive, ostensibly so that she could orient herself with the city, but she knew the real reason:

Though he had never told her, Liz knew from a basic background check that he did not have a valid driver's license, had not possessed one for the better part of a decade. It made sense, knowing his preference for traveling via plane, and the fact that he had his own personal chauffeurs.

"So, that woman seems to know you pretty well."

"Yes, to a degree. Aubrey is my cousin. She's quite a bit younger than I, but spent a lot of time visiting in the summers. My mother was fond of her, and I got along with her fairly well. The house we are staying in now is the one she grew up in."

"Really. That's interesting." It wasn't really, but Liz didn't know what else to say. Honestly, the woman's brazen effort to evangelize her while denigrating her own faith had kind of pissed her off. "She's pretty devout. I hope that hasn't put up some kind of barrier between you."

"No, it is hardly a barrier. Her fervor used to be tiresome, but I see her so infrequently now that it does not bother me. In some ways, I admire her tenacity. It takes a special kind of dedication to adhere so strongly to a belief system that vilifies your entire state of being."

"What?"

"You mean you could not tell? Aubrey is a kind woman, sweet as can be; she is also a solid 6 on the Kinsey scale."

"That _is_ pretty tenacious. I'm sorry you don't see her more often."

"Sweetheart, do not waste energy feeling sorry about it. I love my cousin, but it is easier for the both of us if I keep my distance."

"Does she have any idea what you do?"

"No. Aubrey chooses to isolate herself from the world as much as possible, to the extent of not having a television or computer, and reading only the fundamentalist Christian publications she subscribes to. Her car business caters to seasonal travelers. Most of her income is through SSI for back problems."

"That's good then, I guess. You don't have to worry much about her becoming a target. And she doesn't think any less of you."

"Believe me, if she had any idea of the true nature of my work, she would not hesitate to turn me in to the authorities and cut me off of her family tree."

"Jeez, that's pretty harsh."

"Do you really find it so incredible? You who were cast off by your own parents, like a pair of sullied shoes?"

Liz clammed up, staring straight ahead, her lips turned down in a thin white line. Red became a non-entity, and her mind retreated to the past, to a small cache of memories she stored and revisited on upsetting occasions:

_When she was a little girl, Sam counted on her to keep up with the grocery list. Whenever they ran out of something, Liz would carefully note it in blue ink on two bright yellow legal pads. Every couple of weeks, she and Sam went to the Aldi across town. Each had a copy of the list, and when Sam said 'On your mark, get set, go!' Liz took off, running up and down the aisles, grocery basket in hand, racing to get all of the listed items before Sam. _

_If she won, and was standing at the front of the store before him, Sam bought her a Mars bar as a treat. If Sam won, Liz had to put back all of the groceries she had collected, and wash the dishes for the next two weeks._

Looking back, Liz concluded that the semi-monthly shopping scavenger hunt was one of her favorite childhood memories. When she saw the sign ahead alerting her of an Aldi store 2 ½ miles ahead, Liz interpreted that as a sign.

Pulling into the diminutive parking lot, she looked over at Red and cheerfully laughed at the baffled look on his face.

"What's the matter, Red? Haven't you ever seen a supermarket before?"

. . . .

"What kind of spaghetti sauce do you want: regular, meat, or vegetable?"

"They all sound fine. I will let you decide."

"Okay. Regular it is." Liz selected a medium size bottle of pure tomato sauce, putting it in the cart along with chocolate cereal puffs, a quart of milk, cheese, and a 2 Liter bottle of soda water.

"I think I'm good to go. What do you want to get before we go?"

"I will eat whatever you do for the time being. You have a blessedly simple diet. I have one question, though: why do you have to pay a quarter to use a cart here?"

"I don't know, but who cares? You get the quarter back when you put the cart up . . . oh, I know what I forgot! We haven't gotten any bread and peanut butter yet!"

"Lizzie, you really are adorable."

"Shut up, Red."

. . . .

The drive back to the house took longer than expected. Red directed Liz to take back country roads and makeshift (illegal) trails cutting through the woods. Although it was long, the ride back was enjoyable. Liz's earlier annoyance and anger faded away, and instead she was in a talkative, pleasant mood.

"How did you celebrate Christmas as a child?"

"The same way as any other middle-class American child, I suppose. My parents encouraged my belief in Santa Clause, and in my early childhood I would write letters to the North Pole, asking for such and such toy and reaffirming my good behavior. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Sorry, but it's hard for me to imagine you as a child."

"Is it easier for you to believe that I sprang up fully grown from the depths of hell?"

"Actually, yes."

"Oh Lizzie, you wound me! In all seriousness, I probably have some photographs around the house somewhere. Gran used to make scrapbooks of big family events."

"It sounds like you and your grandmother were close."

"We were. My parents were kind enough, but the only family member I ever felt true unconditional love from was Gran."

"Red, I don't know what to say. . ."

"There is nothing to say. Please do not feel sorry for me, Lizzie. On the whole, I had an exemplary childhood."

"Okay. What was your favorite Christmas present?"

"When I was 11 I got a bright red Schwinn bicycle. I could spend half a day riding through Dorchester Park. There were several times that I stayed after dusk, and Tildie would come searching for me with a flashlight."

"Tildie?"

"Our laundress and housekeeper. Mother was afraid to go out after dark, and Father worked late. Tildie would find me, box my ears, and force me to walk home beside her, pushing my bike. She knocked me nearly senseless on more than one occasion, and I thought I hated her for it. It took years for me to recognize it for what it was: an act of love."

"Oh yeah. That sure sounds like love to me."

"My parents would tell me they loved me all the time. I cannot recall my mother ever disciplining me, and only a few switchings from my father. If Tildie was upset with me, she would not hesitate to freely slap and chastise me. _'Raymond,'_ she would say, _'I'm sorry to be hurting you like this. I'm only doing this 'cause I want you to understand that there are consequences to your actions. I want you to grow up and be a __gentleman__.' _I wonder what she would think if she could see me now?"

"Whatever happened to her?"

"She is alive and well. She lives at an assisted living facility in Boca Raton."

"Why don't you go down to visit her?"

"Lizzie, take a right past that creek. Follow the trail for another mile, and we will be back at the house."

"You're not going to answer me. Big surprise. I don't know why I bother asking you anything."

"I have already said too much as it is. I will not apologize for setting a limit now."

"I don't remember asking for an apology. Maybe you're just deflecting the question because you don't like the answer. Maybe you don't even know the answer for yourself."

"Lizzie . . ."

"What, Red?"

"Please be quiet."

. . . .

"Lizzie, you shouldn't put it off any longer. You need to take a bath."

"How am I supposed to do that when I don't have anything to change into?"

"You do have something: I found a hoodie and pair of sweatpants in the trunk of the Jetta. Neatly folded in a paper bag, if you can believe that."

"I don't. Who leaves a bag of clothes in the trunk of a car they're trying to sell?"

"You got me. I borrowed a few outfits out of Aubrey's closet when she wasn't looking."

"A few?"

"Yes. I happen to not have any spare clothing, either. Most if not all of my cousin's wardrobe consists of masculine style clothing. She happens to be a few sizes bigger than me."

"Those clothes won't fit me! I might as well just reuse the ones I've got on."

"No, absolutely not. You have worn that outfit for nearly two days already. Tomorrow I will take you shopping for new clothes, but these will do until then. We ought to have gone shopping today."

"Don't act like that's my fault! You could have mentioned it on the way back."

"Indeed. However, I expected you to think of it without my prompting. This shows a grave deficiency in your priorities, and your personal hygiene."

"Red, please . . ."

"I was only teasing you, darling. I know you have a lot on your mind."

"Thanks. Maybe I was being too sensitive."

"Not at all. I admit I went too far."

"Yeah, you did. Well . . . I'm going to quit putting that bath off, I guess."

"Good."

. . . . .

The house did not have a shower, and the 'tub' was nothing more than an old copper basin, used once upon a time to carry food or water. Liz wondered what it must have been like for Red's relatives, living in the Deep South during the Great Depression.

Surely they must have had a tub at some point? But then, looking at the small weathered house, she knew that the Roarkes had to make do with grinding poverty. She decided to bathe using the sink, finding a washcloth and unwrapped bar of soap in the cabinet.

At one point, Red had gotten out a thick white cotton towel, neatly folded on the counter. Turning the water on, Liz unwrapped the bar of soap and undressed, feeling a numbing chill as her bare flesh was exposed to the air.

She stared at her reflection, noting her pallor and the dark, bruise-like shadows under her eyes. When was the last time she had slept? Was it yesterday on the train?

She had not been able to sleep at all the night before, staring up at the ceiling for hours while she listened to the soothing, hypnotic rhythm of Red's breaths, reveling in his snug, protective hold. She would be perfectly content to go on the run with him permanently, to let him hold and protect her for the rest of her life.

She tried to quell the urge, the persistent plaintive voice in her head that asked, _Why can't I?_

Dwelling on the thought, Liz wet the cloth and partially wrung it out before rubbing the soap against it. She scrubbed her skin, beginning with her face, neck and shoulders. After she rinsed herself off, Red knocked at the door.

"Lizzie? You forgot to get the clothes to change into. May I come in and leave them with you?"

"Okay, um, give me a second . . ." she grabbed the towel and brought it behind her back, wrapping it around her, holding it closed at her chest. "Go ahead."

The door creaked open. Liz shifted her gaze to the counter, holding her breath as Red closed the door and laid the folded clothes down. She heard his sharp intake of breath, and he wrapped his arms around her, leaning his face against the nape of her neck.

"Lizzie, my darling Elizabeth . . . forgive me."

Liz exhaled on a sob, struggling in his hold until he let her go. She turned to face him, and his lips gently brushed hers, sweetly chaste and languid, so much so that it made her want to cry. Red broke the kiss and tried to back away, but Liz followed him, clinging to his neck.

"What are you doing? Don't kiss and me and just try to walk away! Please don't leave."

Red groaned as if he were in pain. He kissed her temple, backing out of her chokehold to kiss her forehead, her nose, his breath a soft whisper against her lips before reclaiming them. In stark contrast to the first, this kiss was passionate and probing, bruising in its intensity and fervor. When he broke the kiss, they were both gasping for air.

"Please," Liz whimpered, pressing her forehead against his chest. "Please don't leave me alone!"

"Shh, sweetheart, don't worry. I am not going anywhere — I swear."

"Y-you swear?" Liz stammered in a voice so pitiful that Red held her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, savoring the way her lips quivered against his. The towel fell away and Liz's arms fell limply by her sides. He cupped her exposed breasts, pressing soft kisses against her nipples.

Liz closed her eyes and moaned, leaning heavily against Red until he sank to the floor, hugging her shivering naked body. "S-sorry," she croaked, letting the tears fall. "I d-d-don't know what c-came over me. I'm just so . . . _tired_, and I —"

"Hush now. Everything is going to be alright. . ."

Red stood up, lifting Liz into his arms. He turned off the light and carried her across the room in the fading midday light, tenderly laying her down on the couch. He took off his coat and covered her; he knelt down to kiss her and stood again. When he turned away, Liz reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing until her knuckles whitened.

"Red, you promised me you wouldn't leave! I can't ― I can't sleep without you beside me."

Without speaking, Red lay down beside her, leaning so close their noses brushed. He began to hum a melody, sweet and familiar, a lullaby the name of which escaped her memory. She became enthralled in his voice, the gentle cadence soothing her into a gentle slumber.


	6. Chapter 6

If her mother were alive, she would be absolutely revolted. Liz had completely overthrown the relevance of her faith, explicitly rejecting the strictures pertaining to 'the sanctity of marriage' and fidelity. Lusting after a man other than her husband, allowing him to knead and kiss her bare breasts, was an ultimate betrayal.

'_Lusting after a man with your eyes is as good as committing adultery! Adulterous whores will be among the kindling for the fires of hell!'_

_If that is true_, Liz thought as she lounged in Red's arms, _then I will gladly burn._

She stared longingly into his face, tracing his lips, cheeks, the fine lines around his eyes, his soft, beautiful lashes resting against his skin. Red had fallen asleep soon after her, and Liz was exceedingly glad to be the first to wake. His usually blank, guarded stare, and spitefully cruel smirk, had given way to the peaceful and vulnerable countenance of a sleeping child.

More than anything, he dreaded to be defenseless. In sleep, he was just as exposed as anyone else. The fact that he slept beside her was a testimony of how much he trusted her, when she knew he did not trust anyone. She had to her knowledge known him for approximately three months, but he had evidently known her for most of her life. Strange how just six weeks ago she had been prepared to cut him off, throw him out of her life for good; and now she could not imagine a life without him.

Her mother would be devastated to even hear of her becoming so psychologically co-dependent on a man. She herself had become intrinsically enmeshed with a chaotic, volatile criminal, and it was ultimately the death of her.

_You will regret this_. Liz could hear her mother's voice in her head, see her with her arms crossed, shaking her head in disapproval. _Elizabeth Ann, you better just watch your back! _

_But Mom, Red's not like that; he keeps his promises. He is nothing like your husband was!_

_Elizabeth, you do not know _what _that man is like _—

"Shut up! It's my life; I'm _nothing_ like you!"

"What's that, Lizzie?" Red murmured groggily, rolling onto his back and stretching his arms above his head. "Were you talking to me?"

"Red, sorry to wake you. I was just kind of muttering to myself, that I'm my own person, not doomed to repeat my mother's mistakes."

"It sounded pretty heated. I hope you managed to convince yourself."

"Yeah, I did. This is gonna sound crazy, but I actually hear her voice in my head sometimes, criticizing everything I say or do, giving me grief about what I _should_ do. It's like I'm projecting all of my own insecurities on her, and envisioning her warning me against them. If that makes any sense."

"Darling, that is perfectly normal. Your mother was the strongest influence in your life, and though you were very young when she died, the way she treated you has remained ingrained in your psyche. You have spent your entire life trying to get out from under her shadow, to carve your own path and create your own unique identity. She thought of you as a plaything, a pretty little doll to hold and dress up, but she never recognized you as an individual with your own thoughts and feelings."

"How do you do that? How do you take the whole of my childhood trauma, all the chaos and confusion and despair, and explain it all so precisely in just a few sentences?"

His eyes closed, smiling faintly, Red replied:

"I speak the truth of what occurred, through my own observations and psychological research. I knew your mother well, Lizzie. To the outside world, she was able to put on a façade. She was a social butterfly, a nurturer, June Cleaver. But I know how she treated you behind closed doors, Lizzie."

Red turned to face her, caressing her cheeks with smooth fingertips. "Call her what you will, but she was what she was. I know that one is supposed to love and honor her mother, but it is understandable if you do not."

As tears formed in her eyes Red wiped them away with his thumb, catching her lips in a sweet kiss. "You do not have to feel guilty for hating her. You are not responsible for her actions. Lizzie, you do not have to try to please her anymore. She can no longer hurt you. . ."

He embraced Liz, stroking a hand down her back as she trembled and clung to him.

"Red―"

Her voice was a strained whisper, barely audible. She cleared her throat, coughed, and spoke again in a low mumble: "Red . . . thank . . . you."

He enveloped her body with his, pushing down into the couch. There was truth in what he said, and no reason for her to withdraw into herself anymore.

_You are safe here_, he seemed to say. _You are safe and you can trust me. 'I will not leave you an orphan,' _the note had said; _'I will come to you.'_

"I am here," he whispered, voice harsh between fervid kisses. "I will always be here." He shaped the outline of her breasts, kissing them, closing his teeth on her nipples. Liz gasped, scratching his cheeks with her nails, brushing her lips across his forehead and temple.

She reached out searching fingers, slipping them under his shirt. For all his sturdy and intimidating figure, beneath the layers of Armani cotton he was all lean muscle, taut and smooth. She felt rough, ridged scar tissue, mementos of his years in the field as an agent and antagonist. Bullet wounds, stab wounds — even a circular scar left by a cigar burn.

Suddenly frenzied, Liz tugged roughly at the shirt, popping the buttons to expose his chest, matted with black hair. Liz kissed his small dark nipples, sinking her teeth in. Red hissed between his teeth, cursing under his breath. Liz leaned back, and he looked so stunned that she laughed and kissed his ear.

"Payback!" she purred contentedly. "That's for what you said in the car this morning, and for biting me. 'A tooth for a tooth,' or in this case a bite for a bite." Liz pulled the shirt down his arms and kissed him, laving a trail from chin to navel. She traced his belly button with her tongue, slipping lower until her path was obstructed by his slacks. Without hesitation she unbuttoned them, but when she tried to unzip them her fingers began to shake.

Red stilled them and slowly completed the process. Once unzipped, he stepped out of the slacks and dropped them carelessly on the linoleum.

For some reason, seeing Red in his briefs, the thick bulge of his erection straining against the fabric, made Liz feel bashful and skittish in a way she hadn't felt since she relinquished her virginity as a sophomore in college – to a blond fratboy at a Christmas party. She had stared and stuttered stupidly to the point that Frathole started to go soft, and in bumbling desperation she made him close his eyes, while she proceeded to give him what he later claimed to be the best blowjob he'd ever had.

_Great Liz! Think about some punk kid's penis at a time like this!_ She had hated going down on him, and whenever Tom managed to persuade her into doing it at home she spent a half hour brushing her teeth and gargling Listerine.

She silently prayed that Red was not into BJs, nearly laughing with relief when he was not. He pulled the briefs off, and Liz spent a considerable amount of time staring at him. As far as size went, he was bigger than Tom, topping the random Frathole by a good few inches.

Liz wondered how pathetic it was to be 30 years old, and to be able to count on one hand how many men she'd been with (including a brief quickie in the PO restroom with Ressler on a particularly stressful afternoon.) Did that make her too inexperienced? If so, what should she do – let Red take the lead?

She froze up, thanking her lucky stars when Red took charge, pulling her toward him and gracing her with a kiss so passionate she saw stars. "Do not be afraid, sweetheart. I will not push you into anything you do not want. If you at any moment decide to stop, I will do so." Liz clenched her eyes shut and buried her face into the hollow at his neck and shoulder. "I'm ready."

She spread her legs wide, and Red slowly entered her, filling her until she thought she would burst. _God, it felt good!_ Liz stifled a moan, clinging to Red's back and shoulders. He kissed her shoulder, holding her still as he began to move within her in a way that brought her instantly to gasping. "_Red!_ Oh my God . . . Red!"

She clenched her jaw shut, hating the sounds she was making, shrieking like a banshee. She admired Red for so far not uttering a sound; the only sign of exertion was a gathering of small beads of sweat on his forehead. A few moments of relative silence ensued, the only sound the soft creaking of the couch as he thrust into her.

"Lizzie ―" he finally spoke, her name ground out between clenched teeth; "Darling, do not restrain yourself on my account. You are a beautiful, passionate woman — I want you to feel free with me."

Given permission, Liz whimpered and wailed, chanting his name in a sweet litany, tears of joy clouding her vision as the orgasm tore through her, prompting Red's own release as he surged against her with a hoarse shout, her name on his lips as he poured into her, setting them both adrift in a maelstrom of ecstatic liberation.

. . . . .

"Red?"

"Hmm?"

"Did we just have sex?"

Red laughed, jostling Liz as she lay sprawled, spent and sated, against his chest. "Yes," he breathed, kissing the top of her head. "Indeed we did."

"What do we do now?"

"I do not know about you, but I am thoroughly exhausted. I suggest we turn in for the night. . ."

"Night? What time is it?"

Red glanced at his watch: "It is nearly 8:00."

"You mean we went at it for _three hours_?"

"Yes. Darling, it did take an exceptionally long time for you to gather your wits and courage to proceed. But no matter. You are something of a minx, if I may say. . ."

"Is that your polite way of saying I'm a freak in bed?"

"Couch, darling, if you want to be technical about it. . ."

"I don't. Anyway, thanks, I guess." She yawned, turning over so that Red was spooning her. "Actually. . ." she quickly rolled back, her gaze meeting Red's. "I want to watch you sleep again." Red smiled indulgently. "As sweet as that sounds, I believe _I _will be the one to watch _you_ sleep."

"Is that a challenge? Fine: I bet you $20 that you fall asleep before I do!"

"Sweetheart, do you even _have_ $20 with you?"

"Whatever! If I lose – which I won't – I'll pay you back when I get the cash. Are you in?"

Red chuckled and kissed her, drinking her in.

"Yes, darling, I suppose so."

. . . . .

"I feel like a fat whore."

Liz frowned mournfully, her lower lip jutting out in a pout as she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. After sleeping blissfully naked for 12 hours, she had reluctantly donned the clothes Red 'borrowed' from Aubrey: a thick red hoodie, size 3X, sporting the beaming redbird mascot of Illinois State University; and a pair of ratty sweatpants, well-worn with a small hole in one knee.

The hoodie was so big that it stretched to her knees. She had to pull the sweatpants up almost to her navel so they wouldn't fall down.

"Lizzie, do not talk about yourself in such a way – I forbid it."

Red hugged her from behind, kissing the back of her neck. Liz felt a shiver run through her, curling her toes against the sudden onslaught of lust. Using what she hoped was a cool and detached voice she said, "I did not say I _was_ a fat whore; I said I _felt_ like one. There's a big difference."

Red frowned and rubbed her back. He didn't speak, but he knew that her mood would improve when he got her some new and better clothes. He knew just where to take her. "Have you heard of White House|Black Market?"

Liz blinked, startled and grateful he had diverted her attention from her shabby apparel. "No, can't say that I have."

"It is a wonderful women's clothing store, with a fairly large selection. Their products are of pretty high quality."

"You're talking to a woman who buys all her clothes at Wal-Mart or some outlet store."

"I have the utmost respect for Wal-Mart, but you will never see me set foot in one. Ergo you will never enter one while in my company. Agreed?"

"I won't hold a gun to your head. When do you want to go to that place?"

Red glanced down at his own apparel – a hideous abstract sweater and sweatpants nearly identical to hers. "I say the sooner the better. Do you care to drive?"

"Sure. Ready when you are."

. . . . .

On the way to the store, Red surfed the local radio stations, stopping on one that played 80s pop music.

"You know Lizzie," he opined, "I think that in all the decades I've lived, the music of the 1980s was by far the best. I honestly cannot fathom how anyone can consider that mass-produced, autotuned drivel on the radio these days 'music.' "

"You won't get any argument here on that point," Liz conceded, pulling onto the main highway.

"I don't keep up with the Top 40 or whatever. Believe it or not, I was raised on Garth Brooks and Bon Jovi. Mom only owned a couple of cassettes by them, and she played them constantly. Besides that, the only music I was allowed to listen to were church hymns. Imagine my surprise to discover an entire world of music: Daddy – Sam bought me an Alanis Morissette CD for my 13th birthday. I used to dance around the house in my socks, a hairbrush my mic, signing along to 'You Oughta Know.' I don't listen to the radio much these days. That's more of Tom's thing. What I've heard so far has been pretty depressing. Oh!"

She stopped talking as the opening riff of 'Edge of Seventeen' came over the airwaves. Red watched fondly with rapt attention as Liz sang the entire song with Stevie Nicks word for word. She beat her hand against the steering wheel to keep rhythm. As the song came to a close, Red pressed his fingers to the back of her neck, gently massaging her. "I worry you may have a crick in your neck from the way you slept last night."

He smirked in self-satisfaction, relishing the memory of her lying atop him, spent from lovemaking. She had fallen asleep first, her cheek resting against his chest, her soft deepening breaths lulling him. She seemed to have forgotten 'the bet,' and he was loath to bring it up. _Poor, sweet Lizzie. You were so tired…_ _it is no wonder that you should forget such a trivial thing._ And he had been the one to make her tired.

She had asked how long they had 'gone at it,' but she had not asked how many times. Which was a good thing, as he himself had stopped keeping count after a while. She was an addiction, sweet and sinful, and he claimed her body as his over and over. The headstrong, spiteful bitch she so strongly claimed to be had become sweet and docile, a purring kitten beneath his ministrations.

With a free hand, Liz took hold of Red's, locking their fingers together. She squeezed his hand, holding tight until Red told her to turn to the right, and she had parked in front of the store he was so eager to take her to.

. . . . .

"Look around and choose whatever you like. Think of everything you find here as my Christmas gift to you." Red patted Liz's back before sitting down in a display recliner at the front, idly scanning the selection of magazines on the nearby table. Glancing back up, he saw that Liz was still rooted to the spot, as if she had not heard or understood him.

"Lizzie, I mean what I say. Go ahead and choose whatever you want. I will be here when you are ready to go."

Liz nodded dumbly and slowly made her way toward the dress department, conveniently labeled in all caps; it was a good thing that even high-end stores did not attempt to be subtle. She wandered several aisles, scanning the skirts and dresses with a meticulous eye. She first found a beautiful black blouson dress with white polka dots, confidently picking a size 4. Even if she had gained a little weight since Thanksgiving, the dress had an elastic waist.

Moving on, she carried the dress folded over her arm, and came to a rack containing an assortment of miscellaneous tops. She picked out a red turtleneck, a long-sleeved green blouse, and a black-and-white striped pullover sweater. Her hands were full, and Liz berated herself for not getting a cart, and in the same breath knew it was because she would not allow herself to get much else, no matter what Red said.

She needed to get a pair of pants, at least, and some shoes. She settled on a pair of black slacks and high heels that would add an inch to her height; she might even be on eye level with Red.

Finished, she carried her selections to the front where she found Red patiently waiting, absorbed in _Esquire_. He looked up at her with such a tender expression that Liz had to restrain herself from running to his side and kissing him. Instead she got in line, and he came to stand beside her, taking some of the clothes from her and hooking his arm through hers. While they waited, they got several looks from the others in line, some curious, and others outright disdainful.

They were members of the upper echelon, wearing Italian designer name brands, the crème de la crème. Red managed to live up to their standards, and he had become accustomed to living in luxury. Liz had come from a broken home, rising through the ranks with her smarts and sheer hard work. These were the people she had come to hate; she would never be one of them.

The sales associate visibly blanched when Liz approached the counter, but screwed on a phony saccharine smile as she scanned the price tags for the items. The total amount came to a whopping $843.62.

Liz struggled to keep her face blank as Red slowly withdrew nine $100 bills from his pocket (Liz briefly wondered where the heck he kept all this money, and how much he had brought with him) and placed them on the counter, one after another. The girl's eyes widened, and she became a simpering sycophant as she put their purchases in four bags, opening the register to make change.

"Thank you miss, please keep the change."

Red gathered the bags without another word, briskly walking away, Liz following close on his heel, no longer bothering to hide a satisfied smirk. With the sales associate staring after them, Liz turned and flipped her the bird.


	7. Chapter 7

"Red, I need to ask you something."

"Yes, dear?"

"What was that song you were humming the other day?"

"Ah, I wondered when you would ask." He pulled her close and kissed her long and slow, moistening her lips with his tongue.

After visiting a few more stores and traveling to the nearby city of Naperville to eat at Olive Garden (where the two heartily binged on shrimp scampi and tiramisu) Red and Liz arrived at the house around 5:00. Red sat against the front wall by the door, Liz sprawled across the floor, resting her head in his lap.

"The song is my favorite hymn – '_O Come, O Come Immanuel.'_ "

"That was my favorite hymn when I was a kid! I'd forgotten the name, but I recognized the melody. Singing that hymn was the best part about going to church; I never paid attention to much else. I went because Sam made me. Listen to me, blabbering on about something you already knew."

"Lizzie, please do not speak so blasphemously. You speak with such disdain of the Church that I fear for your immortal soul."

Liz bristled. "That's great stuff, coming from a man who has committed murder, trafficked in drugs and firearms, and slept with a married woman." She felt him shaking, and looked up to see his face red with laughter. "You jerk!"

"Forgive me, Lizzie." Red kissed her hand, nibbling the tips of her fingers gently. Liz sat up and turned to face him, throwing her arms around his neck to pull him toward her. She ground her lips against his and pulled his lower lip between her teeth, first nipping gently, then biting down until she tasted blood.

Red pulled away fiercely, an angry glint in his dark eyes that she had not seen before.

When she had been kidnapped and tormented by Kornish, and again when Garrick had held a gun to her head, she had seen a different gleam in his eyes, a sort of bitter hatred and resignation, the promise that he would unleash hell on her tormentors, make them suffer unimaginably.

This look also seemed to hold some promise, one that she did not wish to explore. She kissed him remorsefully, probing the swollen cut she had made with her tongue.

"I'm sorry. I got carried away . . . forgive me?"

Red smiled half-heartedly. "You first."

"Okay. Raymond Reddington, I hereby absolve you of your implication that I am a bad Catholic, and that I am in mortal danger of the fires of hell."

"Elizabeth Keen, I hereby do likewise, and absolve you of biting a hole in my lip."

"Good. I'm glad we got to air out our grievances, aren't you? Now we can spend the rest of the holiday with clear consciences."

"I am not so sure about that, Lizzie. I can think of one more activity I wish to indulge in, that will require us to do penance and receive absolution for."

"Just one activity? Or one activity done repetitively?"

"Darling, we shall indulge as many times as we can before we must prepare for the Mass."

"Really? Of all the places you could take me for a Christmas date, you're taking me to church?"

"The 'dating' can be accomplished here easily enough. We have plenty of cereal left. Food is the furthest thing from my mind at the moment, but I am sure we will be able to work up an appetite."

He grinned licentiously, reaching out a hand to grip her breast through the thick red cotton. "This thing . . ." he tugged at the hoodie until the beige lace bra showed; ". . . this is in the way too," he fairly growled and pushed the cup down to expose a pert pink nipple.

Before Liz could react he had latched on, suckling her as she moaned and shuddered against him.

She gripped the sides of his head to pull him closer. When he let go, they were both panting. Liz wasted no time pulling the hoodie off and unhooking her bra. _Nice, Liz. You better watch out, or you might just become his booty call!_

As Red undressed, Liz concluded that she didn't really give a damn. He gently pushed her down with his body, and she savored the feel of the cool, cracked linoleum against her bare back. Red kissed her forehead, lips, and the soft skin of her neck, making her giggle and blush. She felt the thickening proof of his desire splayed against her stomach – and realized she still had her damn pants on.

As if he could read her mind ― and that no longer seemed like such a remote possibility — Red slid down her body until his head was level with her waist.

Hooking two fingers under the waistband, he pulled the sweatpants partially down, revealing a soft pink lace thong. Red snapped one of the thin bands, grinning wickedly at Liz's sheepish cringe.

"I don't remember seeing the cashier ring these up. What do you have to say for yourself, Agent Keen?"

"Nothing. I saw them, liked them, and took them. End of story."

Liz frowned defiantly until Red began to kiss her stomach, then right above the ridiculously thin scrap of material. "Do you trust me, Lizzie?"

"Yes. Of course I do."

"Then close your eyes."

Liz obeyed, her heart hammering in her chest as Red slid the sweatpants down her legs, gently parting them, pushing the thong aside to fully expose her. He pushed one finger inside, then two, probing the gathering wetness in her depths. Liz shuddered and moaned under the stroke and press of his fingers.

Red added his tongue to the exploration, lapping up the piscine juices. Liz cried out and bucked beneath him, wrapping her legs around his neck as if to hold him in place. Red kissed and licked her, finding the sensitive nub that seemed to be the nexus of her nerves.

She shrieked when he touched it, threading her fingers through his short lank brown hair.

"R-Red, stop! N-no, no! Yes, yes, yes!"

He skimmed his tongue over the sensitive nub repeatedly, delighting in her frenzied screams, writhing as she rode out her climax. When she was through, tears squeezed out of the corners of her eyes, and she panted as if she had run a marathon. Red softly kissed her once more, sitting up to admire his handiwork.

"Lizzie, you can open your eyes now."

She complied, admiring Red's cheeky, Cheshire grin. "Good God, Red! That was . . . you were. . ."

"Thank you, darling. That was just the prelude, you know." His grin widened as he leaned down to kiss her. "Just wait until the symphony."

**. . . .**

Hours later, they bathed at the sink, scrubbing each other until their skin began to peel in places, cleansing the accumulated dust and debris of the old linoleum floor mixed with their musky emissions.

Liz stood dumbly, dazed as Red diligently scrubbed the washcloth over her arms and breasts, her back and stomach, rinsing the cloth thoroughly before washing gently between her legs.

Liz gasped, closing her eyes as she leaned back in his hold. Red kissed her temple and chuckled, tossing the washcloth in the sink. "My darling, what have I done to you?"

"I'll tell you one thing: you have ruined me for any other man."

"I'll take that as a compliment. You are very accomplished as well. What you lack in experience, you more than make up for in passion."

"Thanks ― I think. I don't know if I should appreciate the praise or be creeped out by the fact that you know the particulars of my sexual history."

"I leave that to you to decide. Seeing now that we are both squeaky clean, why don't we eat the last of that cereal and dress in our Sunday best?"

"Our Sunday best for a Tuesday Midnight Mass."

"Exactly."

**. . . .**

Liz decided to wear her new black-and-white striped pullover, slacks, and high heels. As she surveyed her ensemble, Red came up and clasped a strand of pearls around her neck, kissing the nape. "Black pearls of my mother's," he explained. "I thought they would suit you."

"Thank you," she breathed, rolling the pearls between two fingers. "They're beautiful."

"_You_ are beautiful," Red pronounced solemnly; "The pearls are simple a useful accoutrement."

Liz embraced him, kissing him until she became dizzy and he moaned against her lips. He broke away with his face flushed and his pupils blown. "We had best refrain from that," he muttered. "At least until we come back from the Mass. We should not sully our good clothes beforehand, and we must keep our minds out of the proverbial gutter."

"You're right. For a few hours, at least, we have to be pure, saintly Catholics. We can go back to our guiltless hedonism tomorrow."

Red smiled and tweaked her nose affectionately, granting her another long slow kiss.

"There. That should hold you until after the Mass, I hope. Are you ready to go?"

"Ready when you are. I assume you want me to drive."

"Ah, Lizzie. Sometimes I wonder if you can read my mind."

**. . . .**

"I believe you will like the church. It is beautiful, and has a rich history. The original building was destroyed in a fire eleven years ago. The current structure was completed and reopened four years later to the day."

"Was the original struck by lightning?"

"No, the fire was intentionally set by a disgruntled parishioner. I will be in a rest home before he gets out of prison."

"Don't do the crime if you can't do the time, I guess. It makes me wonder, how long do you think you can go on living the way you are without being killed by a rogue agent, or one of those bastards on your list?"

"Darling, you do not need to worry. I am an invaluable asset for the Bureau. Even if they should find and detain me, I have very powerful allies. I would be quickly liberated. Nothing is going to happen to me, short of a heart attack or severe illness – and my health is rather robust, I am proud to say."

Liz tightened her grip on the steering wheel. "You can't possibly know what's going to happen in the future, Red. If anything happened to you . . . I don't know what I would do."

"Lizzie . . ." Red's voice trailed off, and he was torn. He wanted to reassure her, but he was bound to silence, a vow that he would not break even on pain of death. He sensed Liz's growing agitation. Hoping to ease her tension, Red placed a comforting hand on the back of her neck. Slowly, in his rich melodious baritone, he started to sing:

_O Come, O Come Immanuel_

_And ransom captive Israel_

_That mourns in lonely exile here_

_Until the Son of God appear_

_Rejoice! Rejoice! Immanuel_

_Shall come to you, o Israel . . ._

**. . . .**

As they entered the vestibule of Saint Michael's Catholic Church, the choir was in the concluding verse of the very same hymn. The sanctuary was beautifully illuminated by scores of candles, placed at the ends of pews encased in small glass containers.

There were about a dozen parishioners variously scattered throughout. Red slipped into the first pew at the back, solicitously draping his thick wool coat over Liz's shoulders as she sat down beside him.

The priest, a heavily cloaked man of indeterminate age, read Isaiah's prediction of Christ's birth, reciting the Scripture with zeal and vigor. The words stirred some long buried sentiment in Liz, some anticipation that she had not experienced since her first Midnight Mass 25 years earlier.

She leaned against Red's shoulder, blinking back tears at the intensity of the emotion.

"I love you."

Red held her close, stroking a hand through her hair. He did not speak, and for several minutes they listened raptly as the priest and congregants participated in a responsive Psalm:

"_**Today is born our Savior, Christ the Lord.**_

_Sing to the LORD a new song; sing to the LORD, all you lands. Sing to the LORD; bless his name._

_**Today is born our Savior, Christ the Lord.**_

_Announce his salvation, day after day. Tell his glory among the nations; among all peoples, his wondrous deeds._

_**Today is born our Savior, Christ the Lord.**_

_Let the heavens be glad and the earth rejoice; let the sea and what fills it resound; let the plains be joyful and all that is in them! Then shall the trees of the forest exult._

_**Today is born our Savior, Christ the Lord.**_

_They shall exult before the LORD, for he comes; for he comes to rule the earth. He shall rule the world with justice and the peoples with his constancy._

_**Today is born our Savior, Christ the Lord. . .**__"_

At the last pronouncement, Red uttered a soft "Amen." The priest began reciting another Scripture. Red closed his eyes against sudden tears, tightening his hold on her shoulder until Liz whimpered. He loosened his grip, pressing cool lips against her cheek.

They sat in silence until the priest concluded reading the last Scripture, and the congregation was dismissed with a solemn _"Ite, missa est."_

**. . . .**

Red drove back to the house, because Liz claimed she was too tired.

Liz waited restlessly for Red to say something, anything to break the awkward silence. She kept her eyes clenched shut to keep from crying, covering them with a hand as if she were dozing. If she seemed to be asleep, she hoped he would be more likely to say something meaningful, something deeper than just perverse teasing or pleasantries, cryptic oaths of devotion that were designed to reassure her but instead made her feel frantic and insecure.

Maybe she would get a Christmas miracle. Maybe Red would acknowledge what she had confessed, and maybe he would even reciprocate. He could not do what he did – bathe her, sleep with her, make love to her so passionately – if he did not love her, could he?

_Had _they made love? Were they just having sex as some sort of casual exchange, just as something to do to enjoy themselves and pass the time? Liz hated to even let the thought cross her mind, but she could not suppress it.

Consciously she knew that Red did love her on some level – but as what? He had known her as a child, but why couldn't she remember him? The circular, incessant ruminating left Liz exhausted. It did not matter what she said or did, part of Raymond Reddington was going to be withheld from her, and in that sense she would never truly get to know him.

What should she do, then? Was it even worth loving him?

_Yes,_ she answered. _It is worth it. Can you ever truly know all of someone? Doesn't everyone have a side of themselves that they keep hidden away, buried down so deep in their mind that even they can't reach it anymore? _Clearly, her mother had not known her father – and in retrospect, she doubted the woman had even loved him. What if when he ran away, it wasn't _her_ he was running away from, but her mother's instability?

What if that instability was what made Red keep her at a distance? He knew how her mother was, he had said. He declared it with such authority that he had to have some knowledge of her illness, and he had to have known her father, too. One _what if_ led to another, until Liz's mind was too cluttered to focus and she was in danger of dissociating.

Somehow she had enough presence of mind left to turn on the radio, turning the volume up to drown out her obsessive thoughts. The radio was still tuned to the 80s pop station, and the first sound she heard was the starling noise of a pipe hitting metal, reverberating throughout the car with a loud clang that made Liz jump in her seat. Red visibly tensed, but relaxed when a gruff, husky voice began to articulate:

_Love, love TAKES_

_Love, love BREAKS_

_Love, love HATES_

_Promises made in the dawn . . ._

The singer repeated the words several times, every emphasized verb striking a deep chord in Liz's heart. By the time the song ended, she was crouched down with her head between her knees, sobbing as if her heart was broken.

Red turned the radio off and pulled the car to a stop on the side of the road. He turned the motor off and unbuckled his seatbelt, turning to embrace Liz wholly, letting her weep against his chest until she was bone-tired, until she had cried herself to sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note**: The song Red and Liz heard is "Love Hates" by Marianne Faithfull. It features as the main song in the movie Tuff Turf, James Spader's first major starring role.

I had initially planned to have the story be only a few chapters, concluding it on Christmas Day. I have a few different ideas about how it's going to end, but at this point all I can say with absolute certainty is that the next chapter will be the last.

Thank you all for your support!


	8. Chapter 8

"I have a secret for you, Lizzie."

"Seriously? What is it?"

"I absolutely abhor Christmas. This year is the first time I have celebrated in over 20 years."

"Is that a secret? That's about as long as you've been on the run. Forgive me if I sound cynical, but I don't imagine that the season of peace and goodwill toward men is very highly regarded among the criminal elite."

"You are forgiven. I'm glad to see you're feeling better."

"Me, too. I don't know what came over me. It wasn't just one thing, I guess, it was a lot of stuff that was bottled up. A snowball effect."

Red's face and eyes visibly darkened. He checked the side mirror and moved into the left lane. Liz waited for him to say something, chewing her nails nervously until Red reached out a hand to grip the sides of her jaw.

"Stop that!" he ordered, his tone cool and distant. "I meant to say something to you about that earlier. It is a filthy habit, hazardous to your health, and unbecoming. Please stop doing it."

"Is that all? Is there anything else I should stop doing for the good of my health?"

"Lizzie, do not take that tone with me. I only mentioned it because I care about you. Can't you understand that?"

"No, I'm sorry to say it, but I don't! You are a complete mystery. Even after spending all this time with you, giving you my body, telling you I love you, I still don't know anything about you!"

"You know more than you did before. You've met my cousin, and I told you quite vivid memories of Christmases in my childhood. I don't know what else —"

"Save it, Red. I don't want to hear your excuses. How do I know that everything you've told me this past week isn't just another web of lies? Do you remember what you told me back in September? You said everything about you is a lie. Just a few weeks ago, you told me that you would never lie to me: which is it, Red?"

Red's voice softened. "I cannot make you believe the truth; I can only reveal it to you. I have told you true events of my life as they occurred, to the best of my memory. Whether or not you believe me is your choice. I told you I would never lie to you, and I stand by that."

"I want to trust you, Red. You were never secretive of the fact that you became an informant just because you thought it would be interesting. How do I know you aren't using me for the same reason?"

"Lizzie, I would like to remind you that there have been several times in the past week that you told me you do trust me. Last night, for instance."

"That's not ―"

"And only a few days ago, you told me that I had proven myself trustworthy when I saved your life, which I have done on more than one occasion. I am hurt by your lack of trust in me – I cannot deny that – but I also understand perfectly well that you do not readily trust anyone. Trust, like love, cannot be forced; it must be earned."

Red sighed wearily and turned on the radio, turning to a station playing soft classical music. The song was a piano recital of "Walking in the Air," and served as a soothing buffer between them. Liz felt her paranoia begin to fade, gradually replaced by a slow, lazy ease, a sense of comfort and security – almost of normality.

But there was nothing normal about riding in a car with a dangerous criminal, a man she had once believed to be her father. There seemed to be no other reason for him to have such a vested interest in her. Liz turned her thoughts elsewhere. She knew well that overthinking the situation with Red would only drive her crazy again.

How could she vacillate between pure faith in the man one day, and extreme mistrust and suspicion the next? She hated herself for being so damned inconsistent.

_Mom isn't here to bear the blame for my shortcomings anymore. I can't just shrug my shoulders and say I'm a jaded bitch because my mother was an abusive psychopath._

God knew how badly the woman's treatment had warped her, but Liz knew she had been under the woman's thumb and in her shadow for long enough. There had to be a point when she had to start moving on, making her own decisions about who she was and what she believed in, without looking to somebody else as an instructor.

She'd thought she was tough, hardened by her life's experiences when she was really still a child – though she would drop kick anyone who dared say so to her face.

The song ended and gave way to Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata." The song was beautiful, but Liz hated it. It had been the favorite song of Miss Kaminski, the crotchety old woman Sam had somehow convinced to give Liz piano lessons. She was eight years old at her first lesson, and she hated it from the beginning. Sam thought she needed an artistic hobby, but after four months she could do no more than play a few scales, and Sam concluded that piano lessons were not a good investment.

Even so, Liz had gained a deep appreciation for classical music. When the Sonata ended, the announcer came on to discuss the song's history and merits. Impulsively Liz switched the station, finding one that was broadcasting the sound of heavy rainfall. "Is this alright?" she asked lightly, hoping to lure Red back into conversation.

It could only have been about seven minutes since he'd spoken, but Liz had no earthly idea how she should continue. She agreed with what he'd said. What she wanted to know was if he loved and trusted her?

_Yes, he has to. He must._ Why else would he have allowed her to stay with him in one of his safehouses, and why would he want to spend the holiday with her if he did not love her? He had shown her through word and deed that he cared about her, but in what capacity?

"Red, I was wondering . . ."

"Yes?"

"I've been wondering for a while now, and since it's obvious I'm not going to get a straight answer any other way, I'm just going to come right out and ask."

"Then ask, Lizzie."

"Do you love me?"

Red gulped uncharacteristically, a desperate gesture that made him seem cornered and trapped. _He is trapped,_ Liz observed coolly. _He can't get away from me, not here._ A minute passed, then five, before he managed a reply:

"Yes." His tone was clipped and even, but became steadily tremulous as he continued. "I love you more than I have ever loved anyone. I —"

He paused, unsure what else to add. Really, what more was there to say? For all the songs and movies bemoaning how complicated it was, love really was a simple matter. You either loved someone, or you did not.

To Red's relief, his declaration was sufficient for Liz.

She did not cry – Red was again relieved, and concluded that she must have expended all her tears for a good while – but a sort of satisfied smirk curled her lip as she murmured, "I thought so."

* * *

"So where are we going?" Liz took a sip of her drink and yawned. "Wherever we're going, can't we stop soon and get a room for the night?"

"No," Red answered gruffly, a bit irritably. "_You_ are going back to D. C. I have business to attend to elsewhere."

"So what, are you going to drop me off somewhere in the city and just take off?"

"That is the plan, more or less."

"How long will you be gone this time?"

"I can't say. I have to lay low for awhile until the Bureau bigwigs see that I am of more use to them as an ally than enemy. And that could take some time."

"Damn. You want a sip? This is the best ice tea you'll ever taste."

"Yes, thank you. God, that _is_ good! Where did we get this again?"

"Dunkin' Donuts. Are you sure you don't want to get a hotel room? You're starting to get a little pale and . . . slurry."

"No. Absolutely not."

"You'll change your mind."

"We will see."

. . . . .

Red did not change his mind about getting a room. Even if he were to use one of his many aliases, he worried that he would be too easily recognized and reported to the authorities. His paranoia, though perfectly understandable, was nonetheless irritating.

As the sun began to set, he drove the Jetta deep into the woods, coming to a stop in a thick copse of elm trees in a clearing bisected by a freshwater spring. Its pleasant gurgling was the only sound in the otherwise quiet wood.

"It's not much, but it's just for one more night."

"Where are we?"

"Ohio. We'll be back in D. C. early tomorrow afternoon, provided we leave in the morning."

"That sounds good. What are we going to eat?"

"We will stop somewhere in the morning. It's too late to eat now, anyway."

"It's only 9:00!"

"Exactly, and you should never eat after 8:00."

"Whatever! I'm still hungry. . ."

Red frowned sympathetically. "You'll just have to make do with your tea."

"Okay, great. Thanks."

"My pleasure."

"Red?"

"Yes, darling?"

"I want to go to sleep."

"By all means."

"I can't find the lever that leans the seat back."

"Oh, well. It's at the front here, see?"

"Great, thanks."

"Lizzie?"

"What?"

"May I hold your hand while you sleep? Just so you will be reminded that I am near?"

"Please do."

"Lizzie."

"What now?"

"I just wanted to say goodnight."

"Good night."

. . . . .

They set off early in the morning, stopping through a Hardee's drive-thru for sausage and egg biscuits and a cherry coke. Red pulled the car around and parked, and they sat and ate with the car running, Prince insinuating a woman was like his mother who was never satisfied. "I hear ya, buddy." Liz muttered under her breath and took a few sips of coke. Red patted her hair in commiseration and took the drink cup from her.

"Hey, I wasn't done yet! Give it back, I was mid-sip!"

Red smiled lazily, taking three long, slow sips of coke before giving it back to her. "I apologize. You see, I was terribly thirsty and did not think I could stand to wait another second."

"You should've bought your own, then," Liz said sullenly, wiping off the straw with a napkin before continuing to drink.

"Lizzie, you do realize that I have already thoroughly contaminated the drink at its source. Besides, you and I have exchanged saliva numerous times, I fail to see why you should be bothered by my backwash."

"Yeah, yeah. It's just a habit, nothing personal. I _love_ exchanging saliva with you."

"Do I detect sarcasm?"

"Yes and no."

"Please elaborate."

"It's partly just my tone. It sounds snarky and bitchy no matter what I say. But it's true; I love kissing you."

"Prove it."

"Now? But I have cheesy sausage breath."

Red turned toward her and cupped her chin in his hand.

"That suits me. I should say the same, and fortunately for you I love cheese and sausage."

"That's good enough for me. Kiss me?"

"With pleasure."

. . . . .

As they came nearer to Washington, Liz's mood steadily declined until Red could not say anything to her without her shooting back a bitter retort, alternately on the verge of tears and icily detached, staring morosely out the window for long stretches of silence. She turned the radio off when she had grown weary of the perpetual noise.

Red let her be, but when the silence got too heavy he turned it back on, finding a station broadcasting a monastic choir singing Gregorian chants. He lowered the volume and softly sang along. The chant was the Te Deum, his personal favorite. Reciting the ancient Latin prayer calmed his nerves and gave him peace better than anything else.

He tentatively laid a hand on the back of Liz's neck, gently kneading her tense muscles. "Sweetheart," he advised in a soft murmur, "Do not slouch like that. You might get another crick in your neck." Liz shifted in her seat, relishing his touch. "How long until we get to D. C.?" she asked, sounding slightly less melancholic.

"About an hour, maybe less. Lizzie, you know that no matter wherever I go, whatever I do, I will come to your side at your call. What must I do to prove it to you?"

Liz smiled a faint, sad smile and brushed her lips against Red's knuckles. She pressed her forehead against his palm, and his heart physically ached to feel the cold wet patter of tears against his skin.

"You don't have anything to **prove **to me, Red. I have to make the decision to finally trust you fully, and only then will I have peace of mind. You don't know how much I hate hurting you, but I can't help feeling a small niggling doubt in the back of my mind . . . first my father, then my mother – the two people who were supposed to take care of me no matter what – it's hard for me to believe anyone who tells me they'll come back."

"Do you know where that word comes from – believe?"

"No."

"It comes from an Old English phrase meaning 'beloved.' You have confessed to me several times that you love me. As the object of your love, I am _beloved_. It is essentially the same, isn't it? In that way, Lizzie, you _do_ believe me – as I believe you. _'Let not your heart be troubled. You believe in God, believe also in me.'_ "

"How do you do that so easily? How can you know exactly what to say when I most need to hear it? And after all that we have done, how can you so casually quote Scripture to me, as if what we have done is not against the very foundation of our faith?"

"_Our_ faith? How presumptuous of you, Lizzie."

"But I thought you were ―?"

"Catholic? Yes. I was born and raised in the Church, and the older I become, the more I see that it is exactly where I was meant to be. I _believe_ the Church, and God Himself, but not in the same way that I believe you. Do you understand?"

"So you love God and the Vatican, but not the same way you love me. Am I on the right track?"

"Precisely." Red ran his fingers through her hair, loving the texture and warmth. "I entrust my soul into God's care, but to you I have entrusted something much more precious: my heart."

. . . . .

Their journey ended in the same place it began.

Red pulled in front of the Cathedral at 1:30 that afternoon. Putting the car in park, he kept it running as he unbuckled his seatbelt, then Liz's, and pulled her against him in a bruising embrace. Liz hugged him back, clinging to him even after he let her go. He kissed the top of her head, his breath rustling her hair as he spoke:

_"Yet a little while: and the world will see me no more. But you will see me: because I live, and you also shall live."_

Liz quivered against him, quietly sobbing as the gravity of the situation hit her. This was goodbye, God only knew how long for, and Liz could not help feeling forsaken, unwanted, burdensome. Red could hold her in his arms and talk to her until he was blue in the face; his efforts would do little to alleviate the pervasive fear that he was going to abandon her.

Red held her face in his hands and kissed her cheekbones under her eyes, catching salty lacrimal teardrops. He kissed her lips and reached across her to open the passenger door.

"Go," he urged hoarsely. He turned back in his seat and rehooked his seat belt.

"If you need me for any reason, you know how to reach me."

"Okay," Liz agreed. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and closed the door. Red shifted into drive and took off so quickly that the tires squealed.

. . . . .

Liz wandered into the Cathedral and sat in the very back pew. A Sunday Mass was in session, the sanctuary brimming with hundreds of parishioners listening intently as the priest delivered the homily. It took a little while for Liz to realize that the service was being conducted in Spanish, not Latin.

She had spent so many years attending Mass with the Latin Rite, and had become nearly fluent in the liturgical tongue. She understood a few phrases here and there, but eventually lost interest and turned her thoughts toward Tom.

She had been gone for nine days, leaving no note and never attempting to contact him. How was she going to explain herself? She supposed she would tell him that she had been involved in a very critical, secret assignment, and hoped that would suffice. If not . . . what of it?

Red's warning to beware of Tom resounded in her head, as well as his equation of love with belief.

_Why should I care what Tom is going to think or say? I don't know for sure if he believes me . . . and I don't think I believe him anymore._

It was complicated, this thing with Tom. What was not, indeed what was beautifully simple, was the truth that she loved and believed Red.

Feeling the weight and intensity of this realization, Liz bowed her head and prayed, for the first time in years a prayer that was not prescribed, not a novena or an Our Father or Hail Mary; for once she was earnestly seeking to communicate with God:

"Father, I - I don't know if you hear me, or if you do, that you really care. I wouldn't blame you for that, I turned my back on you a long time ago . . . Please, Father, watch over Red. I know he has erred, you know more than I, but you also know that he is a good man. When he is hidden from all eyes, I know that you can see him; if not for his own sake, then I beg you for my own, please keep him safe. Father, I love him. . . please bring him back to me. In Jesus' name I pray. Amen."

**Ite missa est, Deo gratias.**


End file.
